The sky is dead. Matter, I'm returning to you.
Let this over-the-hill martyr forget his numberless sins
and even his cruel Ideal,
as he comes to share the straw bed
where the happy human cattle lie.
There, at last, since my brain is used up,
like an old jar of rouge thrown out in the trash,
and no longer has the art to cosmetize
thoughts that come sobbing to the surface,–
there I'll try
to
yawn myself to death....
No! Blue wins.-I hear it sing in the bells.
My soul, it gives itself a voice
to frighten us even more
as it pushes us into the ground.
In living steel it sings blue angel-song.
It
rolls through the mist, an ancient thing,
and cuts through your native agony
like a confident sword.
Where is there to go in this useless and crazy rebellion?
It
haunts me!
Blue! Blue! Blue! Blue!
