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Acolyte, v. 1, issue 1, Fall 1942
Page 11
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where I had hidden so long. He is here now, writing this narrative. I have had revenge. That should ease the torture, cool the fever in my soul, but nepenthe is beyond all hope. I must banish all memory, destroy it utterly; for nothing can ever right that hideous wrong; nothing can ever stop the pain and physical estrangement in a world of shadow and nightmare torture. Now, if this story is completed before the police arrive, I shall give Norton his last command; to carry this black satchel---and all it contains---to the basement and throw it in the furnace. I cannot bear to live another hellish day... ******************** THE TOWERS OF SILENCE by Emil Petaja Vultures brood in a silent row Where Parsee dead are carried below, To three grated circles on Malabar Hill; Grisly tasks they are fain to fulfill. Priests and mourners are presently gone, Left is one hapless boy alone to look on. Will the left eye be plucked, or first the right? Is it Nirvana? Or endless night? Mosaic of light in old Bombay Vermillions, mauves, then is whisked away... And the watcher perceives a strange dispone, For the feeding vultures are not alone. Grave-wrapt intruders with lichened faces Stalk the gratings in purposeful paces--- For the vultures divide their terrible feasts With cold dead comrades, tomb-spawned beasts. -- 14 --
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where I had hidden so long. He is here now, writing this narrative. I have had revenge. That should ease the torture, cool the fever in my soul, but nepenthe is beyond all hope. I must banish all memory, destroy it utterly; for nothing can ever right that hideous wrong; nothing can ever stop the pain and physical estrangement in a world of shadow and nightmare torture. Now, if this story is completed before the police arrive, I shall give Norton his last command; to carry this black satchel---and all it contains---to the basement and throw it in the furnace. I cannot bear to live another hellish day... ******************** THE TOWERS OF SILENCE by Emil Petaja Vultures brood in a silent row Where Parsee dead are carried below, To three grated circles on Malabar Hill; Grisly tasks they are fain to fulfill. Priests and mourners are presently gone, Left is one hapless boy alone to look on. Will the left eye be plucked, or first the right? Is it Nirvana? Or endless night? Mosaic of light in old Bombay Vermillions, mauves, then is whisked away... And the watcher perceives a strange dispone, For the feeding vultures are not alone. Grave-wrapt intruders with lichened faces Stalk the gratings in purposeful paces--- For the vultures divide their terrible feasts With cold dead comrades, tomb-spawned beasts. -- 14 --
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