A low ceiling like cold reason traps The tortured scream resounding like a cock's crow, Giving away the will that will not submit, While a woman's hysterical laughter mocks the hand That slithers towards a puddle ringed with grime Then starts rubbing a sore round as a plum, Rubbing with the fire of the damned, So that bigger and bigger it becomes, To be the concept and its paradigm. Inside the great hall crumbling tapestries Squarely depict the prisoner breaking free. Yet leaves a multitude whose sighs are proud. An oracle foretells a different end. There will be fires, and phoenixes that build Themselves from their own ashes.
Sunlight falls So pale through thin slits when their coats resplend.
Their beaks are knives, their hearts are girasols, Their wings are unfurling oriflammes, both chilled And fiery. Birds writhe like whips. Some die In shadow, some in brilliant light of day While stepping up the weak gusts of the skies. And with Icarus humbly sympathise. Yet traders in the marketplace beneath Pat their pouches hung on tautened strings.