Disturbed
A disturbed spirit walks here,
not of the gentle slopes, but
of the rugged hills that know
no tranquil hours, only the lure
of suffering's curtain drawn on
all things tender, ecstasy of a
long-held neurosis crackling
harsh notes, of shadows dark
and grim, alien to earth's sustenance,
shaping to be the pattern of this world,
across wide lands where life and
misfortune follow the evil's trumpet
promising storm disenchantment deep,
rudely loitering.
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