When the low heavy sky weighs like a lid on the spirit aching for the light.
And when embracing the horizon, it pours on us a black day
which is sadder than any night.
When the Earth is turned into a gripping dungeon
in which hope like a bat flutters blindly.
And bruises it's timid wing and tender head
against the walls and rotted ceilings.
When the rain, stretching down it's long streaks of water
imitates the bars of an enormous prison.
And a silent group of lonesome spiders
come and weave their webs inside our brains.
And suddenly the bells swing angrily,
and hurl their hideous uproar into the sky
like a band of wandering spirits who weigh over them, listening.
And long hearses, without drums, or music,
move in a slow procession through my soul.
And defeated hope, bursts into tears.
And the fierce tyrant,
anguish that is a black banner on my bowed head.
-Ruth White
Space Funeral, gdi
Poll