The Poetry Corner

The Sick

By Alfred Lichtenstein

Evening and grief and lamp light Bury our death-face. We sit at the window and drop out of it, Far off day still squints at a gray house. We scarcely touch our life... And the world is a morphine dream... Blinded by clouds the sky sinks. The garden expires in dark wind - The watchmen enter, Lift us up into bed, Inject us with poison, Kill the lamp. Curtains hang in front of the night... They disappear gently and slowly - Some groan, but no one speaks, Our buried face sleeps.