Pale chalice before me, oracle or orifice / Cold blood stirring on the damp side of the glass / Pale sheets and knotted limbs, the light a yellow haze / I see rows of crosses kneeling by tendrils of grey // That which is broken of spirit shall ever fractured be / That which is bent ever kneel before the scythe / Smile and grasp the knife as the blood pools, an infinite well / A certain death, an endless hell // I recall this house at the edge of my perception / A blanket of lead draped across my sodden shoulders / Is this the place where the fog parted in my nightmare? / The place of the pines—blighted, bent, conjoined like frozen limbs // Fences coiling, ensnaring their surveyors / Trapped like ships between the tides / Slipping downward, broken on the great wheel / But at the surface the fog is lifting / Wade into the yawning gulf / Wrest me from the jaws of sleep / Speak into my mouth // Face up in a loathsome dawn / Days pass, wracked and endless / Sour thirst thick upon my tongue / Last breath a pill I dare not swallow still // Face down like a wounded rat / Crushed leg dragging ever greater circles / Grasp the knife as the blood pours still / Vast wound, infinite well / A certain death, an endless hell. ... "Era inútil golpear con el dedo en el cristal, delante de sus caras no se adverti a la menor reacción. Los ojos de oro seguían ardiendo con su dulce, terrible luz; seguían mirándome desde una profundidad insondable que me daba vertigo."