The Poet as Mouse and Owl

One day eight years agoit was heard that they had taken himto the dissecting room;yesterday evening it was, in the darkness of the Phalgun nightwhen the fifth moon sankhis desire was to die.His wife lay beside him, his child too;he had love, and hopein the moonlightand then he sawwhat spirit? Why did he wake from sleep?Or perhaps sleep was a long time comingand now he liesin sleep, in the dissecting room.Perhaps he wanted this sleep.Like a plague rat, face smeared with bloody foam,neck twisted, in a lightless hole he sleeps now;he will awake no more.;He will awake no morethe thick pain of awakeningincessantlythe constant burdenhe will bear no moreinto unprecedented darknessas if beside his windowa few silences were comelike a camels neck

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