All I can hear is the wind
That omnipresent blow
Which makes lifeless objects move and events flow
Of which it says in the Bible
Thou hearest the sound thereof
But canst not tell whence it cometh
Whither it goeth
In the grip of catacombs
A room without an entrance
Where a tomblike silence rules in the winter or in May
Over the ones who have a reason to shun
The light of day
At first, nothing but darkness
Decaying soil and fungoid growth
Eight steps in all - the remains of an iron staircase
Each one at head height above the last
In regular lines - the patterns of the past
The precise shape of a hexagram
Entrapment
Ankle-deep in dust, a vault too old
The numbing slumber, the ruthless cold
Enveloped my flesh like a stifling, soft woollen cloak
That smudge of white - the Juggler
Staring at me with vacant eyes
As he went down into the grave, so he will rise up
And so will I