The skies spit sword upon me
to carve curses in my bones and skull.

The gods— in whose abodes I used to offer gold—
turn their backs on me, in their faces a mocking smile
just enough to salt my leprous soul.

Who can I turn too now?
The people I own do not own me,
the land I cherish pukes me out.

What shall be reaped from my name
but pus and scabs, bile and hemlock?

O how I despise and disown history now—
O it's a black tongue with a black song
O a tongue licking my black stigmata!