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Psalm 23
1The LORD is my shepherd,
I shall not want.
2He makes me lie down in green pastures;
He leads me beside quiet waters.
3He restores my soul;
He guides me in the paths of righteousness
For His name's sake.
4Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I fear no evil, for You are with me;
Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.
5You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies;
You have anointed my head with oil;
My cup overflows.
6Surely goodness and loving kindness will follow me all the days of my life,
And I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever.

SONNET 29
BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,

I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

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God Sees the Truth, But Waits

Short story by Leo Tolstoy

In the town of Vladimir lived a young merchant named Ivan Dmitrich Aksionov. He had two shops and a
house of his own.
Aksionov was a handsome, fair-haired, curly-headed fellow, full of fun, and very fond of singing. When
quite a young man he had been given to drink, and was riotous when he had had too much; but after he
married he gave up drinking, except now and then.
One summer Aksionov was going to the Nizhny Fair, and as he bade good-bye to his family, his wife said
to him, "Ivan Dmitrich, do not start to-day; I have had a bad dream about you."
Aksionov laughed, and said, "You are afraid that when I get to the fair I shall go on a spree."
His wife replied: "I do not know what I am afraid of; all I know is that I had a bad dream. I dreamt you
returned from the town, and when you took off your cap I saw that your hair was quite grey."
Aksionov laughed. "That's a lucky sign," said he. "See if I don't sell out all my goods, and bring you some
presents from the fair."
So he said good-bye to his family, and drove away.
When he had travelled half-way, he met a merchant whom he knew, and they put up at the same inn for
the night. They had some tea together, and then went to bed in adjoining rooms.
It was not Aksionov's habit to sleep late, and, wishing to travel while it was still cool, he aroused his driver
before dawn, and told him to put in the horses.
Then he made his way across to the landlord of the inn (who lived in a cottage at the back), paid his bill,
and continued his journey.
When he had gone about twenty-five miles, he stopped for the horses to be fed. Aksionov rested awhile in
the passage of the inn, then he stepped out into the porch, and, ordering a samovar to be heated, got out
his guitar and began to play.
Suddenly a troika drove up with tinkling bells and an official alighted, followed by two soldiers. He came to
Aksionov and began to question him, asking him who he was and whence he came. Aksionov answered
him fully, and said, "Won't you have some tea with me?" But the official went on cross-questioning him
and asking him. "Where did you spend last night? Were you alone, or with a fellow-merchant? Did you
see the other merchant this morning? Why did you leave the inn before dawn?"

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Aksionov wondered why he was asked all these questions, but he described all that had happened, and
then added, "Why do you cross-question me as if I were a thief or a robber? I am travelling on business of
my own, and there is no need to question me."
Then the official, calling the soldiers, said, "I am the police-officer of this district, and I question you
because the merchant with whom you spent last night has been found with his throat cut. We must search
your things."
They entered the house. The soldiers and the police-officer unstrapped Aksionov's luggage and searched
it. Suddenly the officer drew a knife out of a bag, crying, "Whose knife is this?"
Aksionov looked, and seeing a blood-stained knife taken from his bag, he was frightened.
"How is it there is blood on this knife?"
Aksionov tried to answer, but could hardly utter a word, and only stammered: "I--don't know--not mine."
Then the police-officer said: "This morning the merchant was found in bed with his throat cut. You are the
only person who could have done it. The house was locked from inside, and no one else was there. Here
is this blood-stained knife in your bag and your face and manner betray you! Tell me how you killed him,
and how much money you stole?"
Aksionov swore he had not done it; that he had not seen the merchant after they had had tea together;
that he had no money except eight thousand rubles of his own, and that the knife was not his. But his
voice was broken, his face pale, and he trembled with fear as though he went guilty.
The police-officer ordered the soldiers to bind Aksionov and to put him in the cart. As they tied his feet
together and flung him into the cart, Aksionov crossed himself and wept. His money and goods were
taken from him, and he was sent to the nearest town and imprisoned there. Enquiries as to his character
were made in Vladimir. The merchants and other inhabitants of that town said that in former days he used
to drink and waste his time, but that he was a good man. Then the trial came on: he was charged with
murdering a merchant from Ryazan, and robbing him of twenty thousand rubles.
His wife was in despair, and did not know what to believe. Her children were all quite small; one was a
baby at her breast. Taking them all with her, she went to the town where her husband was in jail. At first
she was not allowed to see him; but after much begging, she obtained permission from the officials, and
was taken to him. When she saw her husband in prison-dress and in chains, shut up with thieves and
criminals, she fell down, and did not come to her senses for a long time. Then she drew her children to
her, and sat down near him. She told him of things at home, and asked about what had happened to him.
He told her all, and she asked, "What can we do now?"
"We must petition the Czar not to let an innocent man perish."
His wife told him that she had sent a petition to the Czar, but it had not been accepted.
Aksionov did not reply, but only looked downcast.

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Then his wife said, "It was not for nothing I dreamt your hair had turned grey. You remember? You should
not have started that day." And passing her fingers through his hair, she said: "Vanya dearest, tell your
wife the truth; was it not you who did it?"
"So you, too, suspect me!" said Aksionov, and, hiding his face in his hands, he began to weep. Then a
soldier came to say that the wife and children must go away; and Aksionov said good-bye to his family for
the last time.
When they were gone, Aksionov recalled what had been said, and when he remembered that his wife
also had suspected him, he said to himself, "It seems that only God can know the truth; it is to Him alone
we must appeal, and from Him alone expect mercy."
And Aksionov wrote no more petitions; gave up all hope, and only prayed to God.
Aksionov was condemned to be flogged and sent to the mines. So he was flogged with a knot, and when
the wounds made by the knot were healed, he was driven to Siberia with other convicts.
For twenty-six years Aksionov lived as a convict in Siberia. His hair turned white as snow, and his beard
grew long, thin, and grey. All his mirth went; he stooped; he walked slowly, spoke little, and never laughed,
but he often prayed.
In prison Aksionov learnt to make boots, and earned a little money, with which he bought The Lives of the
Saints. He read this book when there was light enough in the prison; and on Sundays in the prison-church
he read the lessons and sang in the choir; for his voice was still good.
The prison authorities liked Aksionov for his meekness, and his fellow-prisoners respected him: they
called him "Grandfather," and "The Saint." When they wanted to petition the prison authorities about
anything, they always made Aksionov their spokesman, and when there were quarrels among the
prisoners they came to him to put things right, and to judge the matter.
No news reached Aksionov from his home, and he did not even know if his wife and children were still
alive.
One day a fresh gang of convicts came to the prison. In the evening the old prisoners collected round the
new ones and asked them what towns or villages they came from, and what they were sentenced for.
Among the rest Aksionov sat down near the newcomers, and listened with downcast air to what was said.
One of the new convicts, a tall, strong man of sixty, with a closely-cropped grey beard, was telling the
others what be had been arrested for.
"Well, friends," he said, "I only took a horse that was tied to a sledge, and I was arrested and accused of
stealing. I said I had only taken it to get home quicker, and had then let it go; besides, the driver was a
personal friend of mine. So I said, 'It's all right.' 'No,' said they, 'you stole it.' But how or where I stole it
they could not say. I once really did something wrong, and ought by rights to have come here long ago,
but that time I was not found out. Now I have been sent here for nothing at all... Eh, but it's lies I'm telling
you; I've been to Siberia before, but I did not stay long."

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"Where are you from?" asked some one.
"From Vladimir. My family are of that town. My name is Makar, and they also call me Semyonich."
Aksionov raised his head and said: "Tell me, Semyonich, do you know anything of the merchants
Aksionov of Vladimir? Are they still alive?"
"Know them? Of course I do. The Aksionovs are rich, though their father is in Siberia: a sinner like
ourselves, it seems! As for you, Gran'dad, how did you come here?"
Aksionov did not like to speak of his misfortune. He only sighed, and said, "For my sins I have been in
prison these twenty-six years."
"What sins?" asked Makar Semyonich.
But Aksionov only said, "Well, well--I must have deserved it!" He would have said no more, but his
companions told the newcomers how Aksionov came to be in Siberia; how some one had killed a
merchant, and had put the knife among Aksionov's things, and Aksionov had been unjustly condemned.
When Makar Semyonich heard this, he looked at Aksionov, slapped his own knee, and exclaimed, "Well,
this is wonderful! Really wonderful! But how old you've grown, Gran'dad!"
The others asked him why he was so surprised, and where he had seen Aksionov before; but Makar
Semyonich did not reply. He only said: "It's wonderful that we should meet here, lads!"
These words made Aksionov wonder whether this man knew who had killed the merchant; so he said,
"Perhaps, Semyonich, you have heard of that affair, or maybe you've seen me before?"
"How could I help hearing? The world's full of rumours. But it's a long time ago, and I've forgotten what I
heard."
"Perhaps you heard who killed the merchant?" asked Aksionov.
Makar Semyonich laughed, and replied: "It must have been him in whose bag the knife was found! If
some one else hid the knife there, 'He's not a thief till he's caught,' as the saying is. How could any one
put a knife into your bag while it was under your head? It would surely have woke you up."
When Aksionov heard these words, he felt sure this was the man who had killed the merchant. He rose
and went away. All that night Aksionov lay awake. He felt terribly unhappy, and all sorts of images rose in
his mind. There was the image of his wife as she was when he parted from her to go to the fair. He saw
her as if she were present; her face and her eyes rose before him; he heard her speak and laugh. Then
he saw his children, quite little, as they: were at that time: one with a little cloak on, another at his
mother's breast. And then he remembered himself as he used to be-young and merry. He remembered
how he sat playing the guitar in the porch of the inn where he was arrested, and how free from care he
had been. He saw, in his mind, the place where he was flogged, the executioner, and the people standing
around; the chains, the convicts, all the twenty-six years of his prison life, and his premature old age. The
thought of it all made him so wretched that he was ready to kill himself.

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"And it's all that villain's doing!" thought Aksionov. And his anger was so great against Makar Semyonich
that he longed for vengeance, even if he himself should perish for it. He kept repeating prayers all night,
but could get no peace. During the day he did not go near Makar Semyonich, nor even look at him.
A fortnight passed in this way. Aksionov could not sleep at night, and was so miserable that he did not
know what to do.
One night as he was walking about the prison he noticed some earth that came rolling out from under one
of the shelves on which the prisoners slept. He stopped to see what it was. Suddenly Makar Semyonich
crept out from under the shelf, and looked up at Aksionov with frightened face. Aksionov tried to pass
without looking at him, but Makar seized his hand and told him that he had dug a hole under the wall,
getting rid of the earth by putting it into his high-boots, and emptying it out every day on the road when the
prisoners were driven to their work.
"Just you keep quiet, old man, and you shall get out too. If you blab, they'll flog the life out of me, but I will
kill you first."
Aksionov trembled with anger as he looked at his enemy. He drew his hand away, saying, "I have no wish
to escape, and you have no need to kill me; you killed me long ago! As to telling of you--I may do so or
not, as God shall direct."
Next day, when the convicts were led out to work, the convoy soldiers noticed that one or other of the
prisoners emptied some earth out of his boots. The prison was searched and the tunnel found. The
Governor came and questioned all the prisoners to find out who had dug the hole. They all denied any
knowledge of it. Those who knew would not betray Makar Semyonich, knowing he would be flogged
almost to death. At last the Governor turned to Aksionov whom he knew to be a just man, and said:
"You are a truthful old man; tell me, before God, who dug the hole?"
Makar Semyonich stood as if he were quite unconcerned, looking at the Governor and not so much as
glancing at Aksionov. Aksionov's lips and hands trembled, and for a long time he could not utter a word.
He thought, "Why should I screen him who ruined my life? Let him pay for what I have suffered. But if I
tell, they will probably flog the life out of him, and maybe I suspect him wrongly. And, after all, what good
would it be to me?"
"Well, old man," repeated the Governor, "tell me the truth: who has been digging under the wall?"
Aksionov glanced at Makar Semyonich, and said, "I cannot say, your honour. It is not God's will that I
should tell! Do what you like with me; I am your hands."
However much the Governor! tried, Aksionov would say no more, and so the matter had to be left.
That night, when Aksionov was lying on his bed and just beginning to doze, some one came quietly and
sat down on his bed. He peered through the darkness and recognised Makar.
"What more do you want of me?" asked Aksionov. "Why have you come here?"

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Makar Semyonich was silent. So Aksionov sat up and said, "What do you want? Go away, or I will call the
guard!"
Makar Semyonich bent close over Aksionov, and whispered, "Ivan Dmitrich, forgive me!"
"What for?" asked Aksionov.
"It was I who killed the merchant and hid the knife among your things. I meant to kill you too, but I heard a
noise outside, so I hid the knife in your bag and escaped out of the window."
Aksionov was silent, and did not know what to say. Makar Semyonich slid off the bed-shelf and knelt upon
the ground. "Ivan Dmitrich," said he, "forgive me! For the love of God, forgive me! I will confess that it was
I who killed the merchant, and you will be released and can go to your home."
"It is easy for you to talk," said Aksionov, "but I have suffered for you these twenty-six years. Where could
I go to now?... My wife is dead, and my children have forgotten me. I have nowhere to go..."
Makar Semyonich did not rise, but beat his head on the floor. "Ivan Dmitrich, forgive me!" he cried. "When
they flogged me with the knot it was not so hard to bear as it is to see you now ... yet you had pity on me,
and did not tell. For Christ's sake forgive me, wretch that I am!" And he began to sob.
When Aksionov heard him sobbing he, too, began to weep. "God will forgive you!" said he. "Maybe I am a
hundred times worse than you." And at these words his heart grew light, and the longing for home left
him. He no longer had any desire to leave the prison, but only hoped for his last hour to come.
In spite of what Aksionov had said, Makar Semyonich confessed, his guilt. But when the order for his
release came, Aksionov was already dead.

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Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

POEM BY ROBERT FROST
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sounds the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

On His Blindness
Poem by John Milton

When I consider how my light is spent

Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one Talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He returning chide,
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait."

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The Cask of Amontillado

Short story by Edgar Allan Poe

The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult I vowed
revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that gave utterance to a
threat. At length I would be avenged; this was a point definitely, settled --but the very definitiveness with
which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish but punish with impunity. A wrong
is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails
to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong.
It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good will. I
continued, as was my in to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my to smile now was at the
thought of his immolation.
He had a weak point --this Fortunato --although in other regards he was a man to be respected and even
feared. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit. For
the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity, to practise imposture upon the
British and Austrian millionaires. In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his countrymen, was a quack,
but in the matter of old wines he was sincere. In this respect I did not differ from him materially; --I was
skilful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I could.
It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I encountered
my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man wore motley.
He had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress, and his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I
was so pleased to see him that I thought I should never have done wringing his hand.
I said to him --"My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking to-day. But I
have received a pipe of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts."
"How?" said he. "Amontillado, A pipe? Impossible! And in the middle of the carnival!"
"I have my doubts," I replied; "and I was silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price without consulting
you in the matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain."
"Amontillado!"
"I have my doubts."
"Amontillado!"
"And I must satisfy them."
"Amontillado!"
"As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchresi. If any one has a critical turn it is he. He will tell me --"
"Luchresi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry."
"And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own.
"Come, let us go."
"Whither?"

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"To your vaults."

"My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an engagement. Luchresi--"
"I have no engagement; --come."
"My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I perceive you are afflicted. The
vaults are insufferably damp. They are encrusted with nitre."
"Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado! You have been imposed upon. And as
for Luchresi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado."
Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm; and putting on a mask of black silk and drawing
a roquelaire closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo.
There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honour of the time. I had told
them that I should not return until the morning, and had given them explicit orders not to stir from the
house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate disappearance, one and all, as
soon as my back was turned.
I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato, bowed him through several suites
of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting
him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together upon
the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors.
The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode.
"The pipe," he said.
"It is farther on," said I; "but observe the white web-work which gleams from these cavern walls."
He turned towards me, and looked into my eves with two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxication.
"Nitre?" he asked, at length.
"Nitre," I replied. "How long have you had that cough?"
"Ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh!"
My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes.
"It is nothing," he said, at last.
"Come," I said, with decision, "we will go back; your health is precious. You are rich, respected, admired,
beloved; you are happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go
back; you will be ill, and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchresi --"
"Enough," he said; "the cough's a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough."
"True --true," I replied; "and, indeed, I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily --but you should use
all proper caution. A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps.
Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the mould.
"Drink," I said, presenting him the wine.

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He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jingled.
"I drink," he said, "to the buried that repose around us."
"And I to your long life."
He again took my arm, and we proceeded.
"These vaults," he said, "are extensive."
"The Montresors," I replied, "were a great and numerous family."
"I forget your arms."
"A huge human foot d'or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are imbedded
in the heel."
"And the motto?"
"Nemo me impune lacessit."
"Good!" he said.
The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had
passed through long walls of piled skeletons, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost
recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above
the elbow.
"The nitre!" I said; "see, it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below the river's bed. The
drops of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we will go back ere it is too late. Your cough --"
"It is nothing," he said; "let us go on. But first, another draught of the Medoc."
I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grave. He emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce
light. He laughed and threw the bottle upwards with a gesticulation I did not understand.
I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement --a grotesque one.
"You do not comprehend?" he said.
"Not I," I replied.
"Then you are not of the brotherhood."
"How?"
"You are not of the masons."
"Yes, yes," I said; "yes, yes."
"You? Impossible! A mason?"
"A mason," I replied.
"A sign," he said, "a sign."

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"It is this," I answered, producing from beneath the folds of my roquelaire a trowel.
"You jest," he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. "But let us proceed to the Amontillado."
"Be it so," I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak and again offering him my arm. He leaned upon it
heavily. We continued our route in search of the Amontillado. We passed through a range of low arches,
descended, passed on, and descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the air
caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame.
At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. Its walls had been lined with
human remains, piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides of
this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner. From the fourth side the bones had been thrown
down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. Within the wall
thus exposed by the displacing of the bones, we perceived a still interior crypt or recess, in depth about
four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It seemed to have been constructed for no especial use
within itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof of the
catacombs, and was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid granite.
It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, endeavoured to pry into the depth of the recess. Its
termination the feeble light did not enable us to see.
"Proceed," I said; "herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchresi --"
"He is an ignoramus," interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed
immediately at his heels. In niche, and finding an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and
finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered. A moment more and I had fettered
him to the granite. In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet, horizontally.
From one of these depended a short chain, from the other a padlock. Throwing the links about his waist, it
was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded to resist. Withdrawing the
key I stepped back from the recess.
"Pass your hand," I said, "over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed, it is very damp. Once
more let me implore you to return. No? Then I must positively leave you. But I must first render you all the
little attentions in my power."
"The Amontillado!" ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment.
"True," I replied; "the Amontillado."
As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I have before spoken. Throwing
them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar. With these materials and with the
aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche.
I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when I discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had in
a great measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth of the
recess. It was not the cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate silence. I laid the
second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise
lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my
labours and sat down upon the bones. When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and
finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level
with my breast. I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the mason-work, threw a few feeble rays
upon the figure within.
A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed to
thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated, I trembled. Unsheathing my rapier, I began to

Filart
grope with it about the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon the
solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt satisfied. I reapproached the wall; I replied to the yells of him who
clamoured. I re-echoed, I aided, I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I did this, and the clamourer
grew still.
It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth and the
tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be
fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined position. But now there
came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad
voice, which I had difficulty in recognizing as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said-"Ha! ha! ha! --he! he! he! --a very good joke, indeed --an excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh
about it at the palazzo --he! he! he! --over our wine --he! he! he!"
"The Amontillado!" I said.
"He! he! he! --he! he! he! --yes, the Amontillado. But is it not getting late? Will not they be awaiting us at
the palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone."
"Yes," I said, "let us be gone."
"For the love of God, Montresor!"
"Yes," I said, "for the love of God!"
But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud -"Fortunato!"
No answer. I called again -"Fortunato!"
No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in
return only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick; it was the dampness of the catacombs that made it
so. I hastened to make an end of my labour. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up.
Against the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century no mortal has
disturbed them. In pace requiescat!

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The Songbirds of Pain: Stories from the Inscape

Book by Garry Kilworth
Tomorrow they would break her legs. At first, every morning there were songbirds in the fire trees outside
her hos- pital window, and every evening the frogs sang in the storm drains with choirs of bass voices.
(Not when she woke or went to sleep: In her twilight world of pain there was no real sleep, just a clinging
to the edge of a dream, an inter- mittent misting of the brain.) Then there came a time when the birds and
frogs seemed to be singing from within her, deep within her flesh, her bones. The pitch of their notes was,
on occasion, as sharp as thorns; and at other times, as dull as small hammer blows on a hollow skull. Her
world was fully of the agony of their music: The songbirds of Brazil entered her blood and swam
the channels of her body with slow wings. The tree frogs, the ground frogs, they al- so filled the long,
narrow passages of her limbs, her breasts, and her mind with their melodies. If snakes could sing they
would have been there, too, accompanying the cicadas and the grasshoppers; the rhythmic, ticking
beetles; even the high-singing bats and the clicking lizards. She tried to remember the time when these
songsters, these choral wonders of an exotic lands, were not part of her, were separate from her. There
was a man, somewhere, who led her to this state. If she could remember . . . * * * * Philip would indulge
her, she knew, to the extent of his fortune. Anitas ap- proach, however, was cautious because of the
nature of her request. Even so, the amount of money involved was considerable and, as was his habit,
he reached for the whiskey when he was thrown off balance. She had come to realize that it was not the
alcohol that was the crutch but the need to hold something in his hand upon which he could concentrate
while he recovered his composure. The worst was yet to come. She waited until he had poured his drink
and was gripping the glass. Yes she mentioned the sumits a lot of money, I know, but Ill give up a
few things ... my fur coat, this flat. . . .
He looked up sharply. The flat? Where will you live? Youre not moving
out of London. What do you want this money for? She hesitated before replying. It was difficult to tell
someone you needed a great deal of money in order to have all your bones broken. It would
sound ridiculous. Perhaps it was ridiculous. Ill have to go away . . . its an operation. Dont look so
alarmed. Its not that Im sick or anything. He frowned, rolling the crystal tumbler slowly between his
palms. Anita wondered whether Philips wife was aware of this trait: She liked to think she could read this
man better than Marjorie could, but perhaps that was arroganceconceit? Perhaps Marjorie was aware
of more important supports than whiskey glasses. Like mistresses. Cosmetic surgery? But youre already
beautiful. I like the way you are. Why should you want to change? Its more than that, Philip. Something
I cant really explain. . . . Im twenty- six. In a few more years my present . . . looks will begin to fade. I
need a beauty that will remain outstanding. Its all I have. Im not clever like you. Nor do I have the kind of
personality that Marjorie possesses. You both have a charis- ma that goes deeper than looks. You may
think its something superficial
that Im searching for, but I do need it. I want to make the best of myself. If Im beautiful to begin with,
then that just means that I need less improvement but there is a great deal of me I want
improved. Where will you go? Where is this place, the USA? She shook her head. Perhaps this was
one time when he would refuse her adamantly. In which case she would have to bide her time, wait for
another lover, just as wealthy, but more willing to indulge her. Yet she knew she could not leave this man.
She loved him much too deeply. Brazil. A town on the edge of the jungle called Algarez. Theres a
surgeon there ... I would trust him. Its a difficult operation, but I know hes carried it out on two other
women. It was very successful. Brazil? Again, the rolling of the glass, the slight frown of disapproval.
She knew that his business interests would not allow him time to travel at this
point in the calendar. She would have to go alone. Do I know either of these women? One of them.
Sarah Shields. The actress. But my God, she was unrecognizable when she returned to society. I mean,
she looked nothing like her former selfextremely beautiful, yes, but. ... Anita suddenly wanted to knock
the glass out of his hand. Sometimes he lacked the understanding of which she knew he was
capable. . . . beautiful, yes, but. . . . There was no buts to Anita. Everything was con- tained in one word.
Beauty. She wanted it badly. Real beauty, not just a pass- able beauty. To be the most . . . Will you help
me? she asked simply. He looked into her eyes, and suddenly he smiled. A wonderful, under- standing
smile, and she knew it would be all right. Philip was usually the most generous of men, but there was that
protective shield around his heart, wine- glass thin but resistant nonetheless, which she had to shatter

Filart
gently at times. It was not just the large issues, like this, that revealed the fragile shell that
encap- sulated his givingness, but small things, toolike a trip to the art gallery or the reading of a poem
to her while they lay in bed after making love. It was some- thing to do with his fear of being manipulated,
something concerned with defending that part of his ego that abhorred control. She knew he needed her
but not as much as she needed himin fact her own need reached desperation point at times, and she
resented the fact that his, though apparent, was not as consuming as her own. Anita thought sud- denly of
his wife. She had never been jealous of Marjorie. Anyone else, yes,
but Marjorie was his wife and, more important, she came before Anita. When will you leave? he
asked. Next month, she replied. Anita went into the kitchen to make some coffee while Philip finished
his whiskey. As she made the coffee she considered the forthcoming trip. Travel was now one of her
greatest enjoyments, although this had not always been the case. Brazil. She wondered whether she
would like it there. She
remembered her first visit abroad, how awful it had been. Normandy, as a young girl on a school
exchange. It had been a depressing visit. The family she stayed with insisted on impressing her with trips
to the war gravesrows and rows of white crosses. Strange, she thought, that men who had died in
such chaos should be buried in neat, symmetrical lines, while conversely, men who had lived quiet,
orderly livesbankers, stockbrokers, insurance people usually ended up in untidy graveyards, their
headstones looking as if they had been planted by some blind, maladroit giant. She shook off the
thoughts of death. After all, it was not death that awaited her in Brazil, but fulfillment, albeit that the road to
that end was paved with pain. She knew it was going to be hard, but it was a rebirth that was worth
the agony she would have to endure. She hoped her mind was strong enough. When Philip met her she
had been a twenty-year-old shop assistant. He had persuaded her to take up a career in modeling so that
she could travel with the small fashion house he financed and they could be together more often. She
was now twenty-six and wiser only in a world as seen through Philips eyes. He had kept her closeted,
comfortable, and happy for four years. Her opinions were secondhand and originally his. She realized this
had created an insipid personality, but for the present she was satisfied with the status quo. Later, when
she had lost him (as she was bound to do one day), perhaps she could develop her own identity. Of
Philips former life, she knew only the surface details. He had married at twenty-five while in the process
of clawing his way to the first ledge on the cliff of success. Success, in Philips terms, was money and
certain pleasures that went with it. He was a considerate lover and good to his wife in all but abso- lute
fidelity. He was not a philanderer. Also he did not squander money on luxuries he did not really require,
like yachts, cars, and swimming pools. He had one of everything he needed except . . . except women.
The thought jarred when she reduced it to those terms. There was a certain greed associated with his
wants that she generously connected with insecurity. The truth probably lay somewhere between those
two character defects. His had not been an easy climb, either. He had come from a poor
background. Philip had since acquired considerable polish and was thought of by his contemporaries as
an aristocratic businessman rather than working class nouveau riche. At the time Anita had met him, he
had been thirty-two. He had given her a lift home after work at a store for which he supplied new fashions.
Now she was making coffee for him following an evening at the theater and before he went home to his
wife. She took in the coffee, and they drank it in silence. They would not make love tonight. Sex was not
the most important part of their relationship, in any case. Philip needed her more for the affection she
gave him. Not that Marjorie was unaffectionate, but Anita had come to know that while Philip was a
tough businessman, he was privately very sentimental and needed a great deal of emotional support. It
provided the background softness to a life full of hard- bitten decisions. Neither woman was volatile or
demonstrative. They were both warm and loyal, with loving dispositions.
It was not contrasts Philip required, but additions. In turn, he gave much almost as much as either
woman asked forin both practical and emotional terms. Ill have to be getting home now, he said, after
the coffee. She nodded. I know. Im sorry. Id like to stay tonight, but Marjories expecting me. Its all
right, Philip, really it is. Im fine. Ive got a good book and the tele- vision if I need it. Please dont
worry. He kissed her gently on the brow, and she stood up and fetched his coat. Ill call you, he said,
standing at the door. Ill be here. He never could say goodbye, always using feeble excuses, like a justremembered something or other, to prolong the final parting for the night. Even a half-closed door was not
a sure indication that he was on his way. He might turn at the last minute, whip off his coat, and say,
Dammit, an- other hour wont hurt. Ill say the car had a flat or
something. Go, Philip, she said. Just go.

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He shrugged huffily inside his overcoat and stepped onto the landing. She closed the door and then went
into the living room to clear away the coffee things. She carried them into the kitchen, but as she placed
the tray on the working surface, her arm knocked over the percolator, which was still on. Hot coffee
splashed onto her leg, and the pain sent her reeling backward. Philip! she cried. She inspected herself.
There was a red weal the size of a handprint on her thigh, as if she had been slapped
hard. Philip. Damn him. He was never there when he was needed most. That was one of the
disadvantages of being a kept woman. The partner was not on
call. Christ that hurts, she thought. She put her leg under the cold water tap and turned it on. The water
would bring down her skin temperature. Afterward, she felt a little better and took several aspirin before
crawling into bed. Funny, she thought, lying in bed, when she was a child they said the worst thing one
could do with a burn was put cold water on it. A dry bandage was the
recommended treatment. Now, they, whoever they were, had decided to reverse the treatment completely
. The world was controlled by whims. The last thing she remem- bered before she fell asleep was that her
leg still hurt her. * * * * The flight to Brasilia was long and uncomfortable, but Anita was excited, not only
by the thought of the impending operation, but by the idea of being in South America. She made her visits
during the next day and took in the nightlife of the city in the evening. There was no real enjoyment in it
for her though, because she wanted to share it all with Philip, and he was several thousand miles
away. She telephoned him, but the instrument had always been impersonal to her. She could not feel
close to him, even while she was listening to his vaguely distorted voice. Philip . . . its Anita. An echo of
her voice followed each word and then a long, deep silence in which it seemed to her that the ears of the
world were tuned in to their private conversation.
. . . lo, darling ... are you? Parts of his speech were lost to her. It was a dis- tressing business. She
wanted to reach out and touch him, not exchange banalities over thousands of miles. Damn, what was
that clicking? She could not hear him properly. Fine, everythings fine, she said. It sounded hollow, flat.
There was more of the same. Look after yourself, he finished, after a very unsatisfactory five
minutes. When she replaced the receiver she felt further away from him than before he call had begun.
Hell, it was supposed to bring them closer, not emphasize the vast distance that separated them. She
needed him desperately. If she had asked him, he would have come running, but there was no real
excusenot one of which he would approve. Just a longing for his company; which was al- most a
physical hurt inside her. The flight to the hospital, over the dark-green back of prehistoric jungles, was
short but not uneventful. They flew low enough in the small aircraft for her to study the moody rivers, the
sudden clearings studded with huts, the forests pressing down a personal night beneath their
impenetrable layers of foliage. Down there were big cats, deadly snakes, spiders the size of soup plates,
and alligators with skins like tank tracks. On landing, she went straight to the hospital. It was a small,
white building on the outskirts of the town, surrounded by gardens with trees of brilliant hues. The color of
the blossoms was so light and buoyant, it seemed that only the buried roots held the splendid trees to the
earth: Should the roots be sev- ered, they would rise slowly like balloons, to take her up into the
atmosphere. Anitas fanciful thoughts, she knew, stemmed from her desire to steer her- self away from
considering the forthcoming operation. When she was con- fronted by the surgeon, however, she knew
she would have to face up to the ordeal. His office was on the second floor. He had switched off his air
condi- tioner and flung windows and balcony doors open wide, letting in the smell of vegetation. She
could see out, over the balcony and beyond the hospital gar- dens. The light seemed to gather near the
edge of the dark jungle, as if the
forest perimeter was a dam to hold back the day, to stop its bright wave rolling in to defile the old trees
and ancient, overgrown temples. The surgeon spoke; his words, perhaps subconsciously, were timed
exactly to coincide with the metronomic clicking of the auxiliary overhead fan. You realize, he said,
there will be a great deal of pain. He was an elderly American with a soft accent and gentle eyes, but
she had difficulty in not looking down at his hands. Those narrow fingers, as white as driftwood with
continual scrubbing, would soon be cracking her bones. They were strong-looking hands, and the arms to
which they were joined, powerful. Many limbs had been purposefully broken with cold, calculated
accuracy, by those hands. We can only give you drugs up to a certain point. The whole operation is
a long businessa series of operations in factand we dont want to send you out a morphine
addict. She nodded. I
understand. What sort of instruments are used? she wanted to ask, but was too afraid of the answer to
actually do so. She imagined ugly steel clamps, vises, and mechanical hammers that were fitted with a
precision more suited to a factory jig than a medical

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instrument. This is the way we break your bones. We screw this here, that therecan you feel the cold
metal against your skin? The plates gripping the bones?then, once
we have lined it up and in position whap! down comes the weight between the guide blocks and crac
k! goes the bone. Easy, isnt it? Of course, once were finished with you, you will be ... ah, even more
beau- tiful than you can imagine. Thats what I want. I dont care about the pain so long as the result
is good. Not good but breathtaking. Well straighten out any defects in the limbs, give you a jawline that
Cleopatra would envy, small feet, slender hands. Well also graft a little flesh here and there. Take away
any excess. The eyes, we can do much with the eyes. And well have to break those fingers, one or two
of them ... am I being too blunt?
No, no. She had paled, she knew, at the word break. The other words were fine. She could take terms li
ke s traighten the limbsbut break had a force be- hind it that shook her confidence. Ill be all right, she
said. It must be the journey, the heat or something. Please dont worry. Please go on. Her body was
alive with feeling, as if electricity were coursing through her veins instead of blood. She concentrated on
his words as he began to
describe what her experience would be, to ensure, he said, that she knew exactly what to expect. If she
wished, she could leave now, and there would be no charge. Outside the window, the birds were singing,
and she concentrated not on his descriptions of the forthcoming mutilations of her body but on their
songs. * * * * At first the pain was a patchy, dull feeling, its location in her body specific to certain areas,
like her forearms, which were the first to be broken. An aching that was difficult but not impossible to
bear. At night, when she was left alone, she could feel the pain throbbing and pulsing in the various parts
of her limbs. Later, it developed a sharpness and spread like a field fire through her whole anatomy, until
there was no pin- pointing its source. The pain was her, she was the pain. It reached a pitch and intensity
that filled her with a terror she had never before thought possible, could not have imag- ined in her worst
nightmares. It had shape and form and had become a tan- gible thing that had banished her psyche, had
taken over completely her whole being. There was nothing inside her skin but the beast pain: no heart, no
brain, no flesh, no bones, no soul. Just the
beast. It was unbearable, and she refused to bear it. She tried, with all her willpow- er, to remove it from
her body. It was then that the pain began to sing to her. It called in the birds from beneath their waxen
leaves, the fabric blossoms: It summoned the night singers, the small, green tree frogs and the
booming bulls from their mudbank trumpets; it persuaded the chitchat lizards to enter in, and the insects
to abandon the bladed grasses for its sake. When it had gathered together its choirs, the beast pain sang
to her. It sang unholy hymns
with mouths of needle teeth, and the birds, frogs, and insects sang its song. Gradually, over the many
days, she felt the sharp sweetness of their music giv- ing her a new awareness, lifting her to a new, higher
plane of experience, until there came a time when she was dependent upon their presence. Tomorrow
they would break her legs. She lay back in her bed, unable to move her head because of the clamps on
her jaw. Her arms were completely healed. The plaster had left them pale and thin, with her skin flaking
off, but the doctor assured her they would soon look normal. Better than normal,
of course. Then her jaw had been reshaped. That was almost healed. The surgeon was insistent she wait
for her legs to be remodeled, even though she told him she wanted the process hurried so that she could
get back to Philip. Her legs. She knew the worst pain was yet to come. Then, of course, there were
the minor operations: her nose, fingers, toes, and ears. (Afterward she could wear her hair shorter. Would
not need to cover those ugly ears, which would then be beautiful.) The surgeon had also mentioned
scraping away some of the bone above her eyes, where there were slight bulges. (She had never noticed
them, but he had obviously done so.) Also there were her shoulder blades to adjustthe scapulae-she
was even beginning to learn the Latin
names. . . . Sweet pain! What delicious strains came from its small mouths. Sing to me, she whispered, si
ng! She needed more and more. The hands havent gone too well; were going to have to rework them,
he said. She smiled, as much as the wire brace would allow. If you have to. Youre a brave
woman. I try to be, she replied, drifting off into her other world, the real world, where she became hersel
f. Her actual self. In there, deep inside, lay the quintessential spark of being, where she
was pure Anita. To reach that spark, it was necessary to use an agentdrugs, medi- cation, will, faith, reli
gion, or perhaps pain. Pain was her vehicle to that interior world, that inscape that made the rest of life
seem a wasteland of experience.
There was the power, the energy of birth. The cold release of death. Heady. Unequivocally the center of
the universe. So strange to find that all else re- volved around her. That nothing existed that was not

Filart
derived from her.
Even Philip. She was the sun, the moon, the stars, the earth. She was void, she was matter, she was
light. Anita and her pain. * * * * How do you feel? asked the surgeon. She smiled. I really do feel like a
new woman. How do I look? See for yourself. . . . He indicated the mirror on the wall, but she had
al- ready studied herself for hours before the mirror in her room. The scars were now invisible, the
blemishes and bruises gone. Blue-black skin had been re- placed by her normal cream complexion. And
now? Now her features were . . . breathtaking, yes. Her whole body was absolutely perfect in its
proportions. This was what she had desired for so many years. Beauty, absolute. Im very pleased, she
said. I really havent the words to express my thanks. He held up a hand. Ive been adequately
rewarded, he said. We dont do it for love of beauty although I admit to being proud of my art. And I
must congratulate you on your courage. You withstood the pain with as much brav- ery as Ive ever
seen. She shrugged. It isnt something Id like to go through again, she lied,
but I think its been worth it. It has been worth it, she hastily amended. They shook hands. Youre a
beautiful woman, he said, in a voice that suggested he had for- gotten he had created her. On the drive
away, she barely looked at the trees, still dripping with colors. Their blooms no longer interested her. Nor
did the birds upon their branches. She had her own colors, her own songbirds. Philip was waiting by the
exit of the airport arrival lounge. She saw him from the far side of the room. He was looking directly at her,
and she realized that he did not recognize
her. He looked away and began searching the faces of the other passengers. She began walking toward
him. Twice more he looked at her, as if expecting a sign from her to tell him she was Anita, then back to
the other passengers. She noticed his expression was expectant but calm. He thought he had no need to
be anxious. Anita was supposed to declare herself. As she drew
closer she almost wavered in her purpose. Her heart flooded with emotion. God, he was her life. Never w
ould she have the same feelings for any other man. He was everything to her. Philip. Even the name was
enough to fill her heart with the desire, the passion, the tender feel- ings of love. She needed him, wanted
him above all else except. . . . She studied his eyes, his face, his quizzical expression as she passed
him and then went through the exit, her feelings choking her. She was leaving him. She wanted him
desperately, but she was leaving himand the delicious pain, the emotional agony, was exquisite. She
nurtured the hurt inside her, listening to the music that ran through her veins. This was beauty: the delight,
the ecstasy of spiritual pain, even sweeter than a physical hurt. Her songbirds would be with her till death,
and her indulgence in the music they created washed through her whole being and made her complete,
made the whole of existence complete, for everyoneeven Philip.

Filart

ITHAKA
Poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
As you set out for Ithaka
hope the voyage is a long one,
full of adventure, full of discovery.
Laistrygonians and Cyclops,
angry Poseidondont be afraid of them:
youll never find things like that on your way
as long as you keep your thoughts raised high,
as long as a rare excitement
stirs your spirit and your body.
Laistrygonians and Cyclops,
wild Poseidonyou wont encounter them
unless you bring them along inside your soul,
unless your soul sets them up in front of you.
Hope the voyage is a long one.
May there be many a summer morning when,
with what pleasure, what joy,
you come into harbors seen for the first time;
may you stop at Phoenician trading stations
to buy fine things,
mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
sensual perfume of every kind
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
and may you visit many Egyptian cities
to gather stores of knowledge from their scholars.
Keep Ithaka always in your mind.
Arriving there is what you are destined for.
But do not hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years,
so you are old by the time you reach the island,
wealthy with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.
Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey.
Without her you would not have set out.
She has nothing left to give you now.
And if you find her poor, Ithaka wont have fooled you.
Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,
you will have understood by then what these Ithakas mean

Filart

An Introduction
Poem by Kamala Das
I don't know politics but I know the names
Of those in power, and can repeat them like
Days of week, or names of months,
beginning with Nehru.
I amIndian, very brown, born inMalabar,
I speak three languages, write in
Two, dream in one.
Don't write in English, they said, English is
Not your mother-tongue. Why not leave
Me alone, critics, friends, visiting cousins,
Every one of you? Why not let me speak in
Any language I like? The language I speak,
Becomes mine, its distortions, its
queernesses
All mine, mine alone.
It is half English, halfIndian, funny perhaps,
but it is honest,
It is as human as I am human, don't
You see? It voices my joys, my longings,
my
Hopes, and it is useful to me as cawing
Is to crows or roaring to the lions, it
Is human speech, the speech of the mind
that is
Here and not there, a mind that sees and
hears and
Is aware. Not the deaf, blind speech
Of trees in storm or of monsoon clouds or of
rain or the
Incoherent mutterings of the blazing
Funeral pyre. I was child, and later they
Told me I grew, for I became tall, my limbs
Swelled and one or two places sprouted
hair.
WhenI asked for love, not knowing what
else to ask
For, he drew a youth of sixteen into the
Bedroom and closed the door, He did not
beat me
But my sad woman-body felt so beaten.
The weight of my breasts and womb
crushed me.

I shrank Pitifully.
Then I wore a shirt and my
Brother's trousers, cut my hair short and
ignored
My womanliness. Dress in sarees, be girl
Be wife, they said. Be embroiderer, be
cook,
Be a quarreller with servants. Fit in. Oh,
Belong, cried the categorizers. Don't sit
On walls or peep in through our lace-draped
windows.
Be Amy, or be Kamala. Or, better
Still, be Madhavikutty. It is time to
Choose a name, a role. Don't play
pretending games.
Don't play at schizophrenia or be a
Nympho. Don't cry embarrassingly loud
when
Jilted in love I met a man, loved him.
Call
Him not by any name, he is every man
Who wants. a woman, just as I am every
Woman who seeks love. In him . . . the
hungry haste
Of rivers, in me . . . the oceans' tireless
Waiting. Who are you, I ask each and
everyone,
The answer is, it is I. Anywhere and,
Everywhere, I see the one who calls himself
I
In this world, he is tightly packed like the
Sword in its sheath. It is I who drink lonely
Drinks at twelve, midnight, in hotels of
strange towns,
It is I who laugh, it is I who make love
And then, feel shame, it is I who lie dying
With a rattle in my throat. I am sinner,
I am saint. I am the beloved and the
Betrayed. I have no joys that are not yours,
no
Aches which are not yours. I too call myself
I.