50.

This night, like the vanity of death,

Lays me down, a ghost on the street,

With false subtlety, the habit of trust

Cast, garbage to the skies: the stench

Of plague is no memory here.

Despair is no spirit now. Hours

Are sold to treachery, yet the scent

Of the almond trees makes indignation

Seem excessive. Love swears even

Among the false. You would not lie

For comfort or advantage. Smell the wind

From your window. If you speak untrue

Then the world is lost. I will leave

Expectations and dip my feet in the sea.