*A shameless thing, for ilka vileness able,
It is deid grey as dust, the dust o’ a man.
I perish o’ a nearness I canna win awa’ frae,
Its deidly coils aboot my buik are thrawn.

A shaggy poulp, embracin’ me and stingin’,
And as a serpent cauld agen’ my hert.
Its scales are poisoned shafts that jag me to the quick
—And waur than them’s my scunner’s fearfu’ smert!

O that its prickles were a knife indeed,
But it is thowless, flabby, dowf, and numb.
Sae sluggishly it drains my benmaist life
A dozent dragon, dreidfu’, deef, and dumb.

In mum obscurity it twines its obstinate rings
And hings caressin’ly, its purpose whole;
And this deid thing, whale-white obscenity,
This horror that I writhe in—is my soul!

*Adapted from the Russian of Zinaida Hippius

from A Drunk Man Looks at Throbbing Thistle