A dead corpse full of wormy questionings,
Beneath the open sky my soul lies dead,
Shameless and rotten and unburied,
For whom eternity no difference brings.
Only the wind my loathed incense flings
Afar afar; only above my head
Day passes, night returns when day is fled,
Unchangeable return of changeless things.
Unto the dead all things bring only pain,
And evermore my perish'd heart is woe
For the vile worms that gnaw it lying low;
While the dead days, like to an endless chain,
Pass ever o'er my body cruelly slow,
And evermore with pain return again.