You are disappointed? You thought that in peace we
Would part to the sound of a requiem, a swan-song?
You counted on grief, with your pupils dilated,
Their invincibility trying in tears on?

At the mass from the vaults then the murals had crumbled,
By the play on the lips of Sebastian shaken…
But tonight to my hatred all seems drawn-out dawdling,
What a pity there is not a whip for my hatred!

In darkness, collecting its wits instantaneously,
It knew without thinking: it would plough it over-
That it's time; that a suicide would be superfluous;
That this too would have been of a tortoise-like slowness.