In this dropt-leaf weather
the heart turns against itself,
never asking by whose justice
the accuser condemns
nor seeking to escape
the descending judgment.

In the dark cell of self-humiliation
where are no walls,
the mind cries for an Outside.

But who turned the jeweled key
in the nonexistent door?
What would a window see?

In a land of mirrors
noone judges.

In a land of gold
noone steals

In a land of laughter
noone smiles.

10 Nov 1969