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literature
Hospice
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Literature Text
This whitewashed hall of the city hospice.
Stuck to the walls beds of marble.
Faces grown pale , faces melancholic
with the sulfuric colour of the winter mist.
These black hands on top of the sheets
as black branches on winter snow.
These dry hands and sick crooked smiles,
and eyes perhaps now looking to the other world.
The silence and twilight and these sorrowful windows
stained from the flies and scratched by dust and rain,
and the knell , the knell of the towering clock
rings as the slow heavy steps of approaching death.
Stuck to the walls beds of marble.
Faces grown pale , faces melancholic
with the sulfuric colour of the winter mist.
These black hands on top of the sheets
as black branches on winter snow.
These dry hands and sick crooked smiles,
and eyes perhaps now looking to the other world.
The silence and twilight and these sorrowful windows
stained from the flies and scratched by dust and rain,
and the knell , the knell of the towering clock
rings as the slow heavy steps of approaching death.
Comments2
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Hmm, interesting poem,