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icy wind sweeps over the desolate snows, Over the Desert of Gobi, towards the sea. I envy this headless corpse, for it sleeps and knows No more of our human life and its agony.

He was a robber when living, and scaled the wall To escape his foes, (Ah, could one escape from love) They would have flayed him alive had he chanced to fall Into their hands, so he strangled himself above.

And after awhile the body rotted and fell, The head still hangs on the nail by the broken stair, Wherever his soul is now, it has left the Hell That passion makes for us here of hate and despair.

Alas, this land of cruel and desolate things! How can the Roses of Happiness come to bloom, Or that butterfly, Love, flutter his silken wings, While the bitter wind of the waste lashes the gloom? 41