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Poem	On the great walls of ancient cloisters were nailed Murals displaying Truth the saint, Whose effect, reheating the pious entrails Brought to an austere chill a warming paint. In the times when Christ was seeded around, More than one illustrious monk, today unknown Took for a studio the funeral grounds And glorified Death as the one way shown. —My soul is a tomb, an empty confine Since eternity I scour and I reside; Nothing hangs on the walls of this hideous sty. O lazy monk! When will I see The living spectacle of my misery, The work of my hands and the love of my eyes?
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