In Bromine Chambers
there can be no mercy,
no bitter flagellation for your sins;
no
forgiveness and no sackcloth
can cease the dance
of ashes on the wind.
Too late
now for a wish
to change all wishing;
too late to change, to breathe, to grow.
Too
late to smother out the tell-tale footprints
which mark your passage through the greying snow
