White Mists[1]

There are grey stone rat-traps on the earth Where human beings are put to die By other human beings. They die hour after hour, a million million times, And still face death.... There is blue air between the clouds and the earth Which they once saw; There are gold stars, And suns that come up red, And trees that turn to purple in the evening— But they cannot remember.... Now their days are bundles of soiled rags, Their nights are stone.... I dare not think of them: It drives me toward the whiteness of insanity. M. C. A.