There is this white wall, above which the sky creates itself-

Infinite, green, utterly untouchable.

Angels swim in it, and the stars, in indifference also.

They are my medium.

The sun dissolves on this wall, bleeding its lights.

A grey wall now, clawed and bloody.

Is there no way out of the mind?

Steps at my back spiral into a well.

There are no trees or birds in this world,

There is only sourness.

This red wall winces continually:

A red fist, opening and closing,

Two grey, papery bags-

This is what i am made of, this, and a terror

Of being wheeled off under crosses and rain of pietas.

On a black wall, unidentifiable birds

Swivel their heads and cry.

There is no talk of immorality among these!

Cold blanks approach us: 

They move in a hurry.