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Publié par Virginia Mellino

When the low, heavy sky weighs like a lid 
On the groaning spirit, victim of long ennui, 
And from the all-encircling horizon 
Spreads over us a day gloomier than the night;

When the earth is changed into a humid dungeon, 
In which Hope like a bat 
Goes beating the walls with her timid wings 
And knocking her head against the rotten ceiling;

When the rain stretching out its endless train
Imitates the bars of a vast prison
And a silent horde of loathsome spiders
Comes to spin their webs in the depths of our brains,

All at once the bells leap with rage 
And hurl a frightful roar at heaven, 
Even as wandering spirits with no country 
Burst into a stubborn, whimpering cry.

— And without drums or music, long hearses 
Pass by slowly in my soul; Hope, vanquished, 
Weeps, and atrocious, despotic Anguish 
On my bowed skull plants her black flag.

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