Period

A poem by Alfred Lichtenstein

The deserted streets flow in gleaming light
Through my dull head. And hurt me.
I clearly feel that I shall soon slip away -
Thorny roses of my skin, don't prick like that.
The night grows moldy. The poison light of the lampposts
Has smeared it with green muck.
My heart is like a bag. My blood freezes.
The world is dying. My eyes collapse.