Mercy denied forever,
pain's but a vain endeavour,
be what you should be: human.
Grass in your footsteps ever.
Sin is beyond endurance,
weeping, vain self-abhorrence.
Even for this, be grateful,
warrant for your existence.
Renounce self-flagellations,
promises, accusations,
both conquest and surrender,
the call of crowds and nations.
Avoid another's uses,
nor spy into abuses.
And do not scorn the human:
you are what it produces.
You begged for pity, croaking,
in vain, remember, choking,
and bore yourself false witness
in your own trial's convoking.
You sought a father, even
on earth, if not in heaven.
In Freud the wicked children
you found, still unforgiven.
You trusted words' illusions,
paid comforters' delusions,
but no one ever trusted
the goodness of your visions.
They loved you by their lying,
your lying killed your loving,
therefore the pistol-barrel
aimed at your blank heart dying.
Or cast out doctrine's power,
hope true love yet will flower,
doglike, you'd trust whoever
trusted you for an hour.
