Terror, lingering things in the dark,
Leads the moonbeam to an ax.
Behind the wall there’s an ominous knock—
What’s there, a ghost, a thief, rats?
In the sweltering kitchen, water drips,
Counting the rickety floorboards.
Someone with a glossy black beard
flashes by the attic window—
And becomes still. How cunning he is and evil,
He hid the matches and blew out the candle.
How much better would be the gleam of the barrels
Of rifles leveled at my breast.
Better, in the grassy square,
To be flattened on the raw wood scaffold
And, amid cries of joy and moans,
Pour out my life’s blood there.
I press the smooth cross to my heart:
God, restore peace to my soul.
The odor of decay, sickeningly sweet,
Rises from the clammy sheets.