This dead world never lived; barren of sound,
Dust lay unstirring from the first of time.
Only the shattered light splinters the ground,
Only the grave-cold shadows creep and climb.
Here mountains bare their sharp white fangs and grin
Impotent greed against the abysmal train
Of stars like lances, needle-fine and thin.
Tipp'd with blue fire to slay my shrinking brain.
Silent the rocks flow in a hell of heat,
Ever the sun stares, like a madman's eye;
Blinding the red veins in my vision beat
My soul, O life, might I hear my cry !
Here should the shades of the dead and hopeless men
Dwell, and in anguish die their deaths again.
from proto-Zenith no. 1, April 1941