I used to read every night br My thin book, of your heart's own verse: br Pages of threadbare longing br For your sentences recompense- br Words now which mirror, br Unreconstituted prose br That from impotency, arose br Toward my heart, like a lettered blight br Of languages silenced, by words br Our day became more like a night br Though once, I had even transpired br To imagine empires conquered; br Armageddons deftly averred br But now in consternation, I find br I'm to light my own funeral pyre; br Let my tears become my dirge br Of sorry tales that could deafen br Blind men, in a stumbling rage br I'll drag my own chains back to hell, br Since your mercy's worse than your hate br And, as there's no music heard there, br I shall welcome my toneless fate; br Music gave too much hope br For hope, without any dreams br The present song annihilates.