Dusk

You are rumpled, distorted by every pain And shake with the discord of all melodies, You burst harp - a poor heart, From which gloom's sick flowers bloom. Who has ordered the enemy, the murderer for you, That stole the last spark of your soul, How he makes this scanty world godless To a whore, ugly, ill, pale with putrefaction! From shadows a wild dance still swings To frizzily ruptured, soulless sound, A round dance around beauty's thorn wreath, Which witheringly crowns the lost winner, - A bad trophy for that fought desperation, And that does not reconcile the bright divinity.