In the Dark Corner

I brush the dust from this old portrait:
Yes, it is the same face, exactly,
Why does it look at me still with such a look of hate?

I brush the dust from a heap of magazines:
Here there is all what you have written,
All that you struggled long years and went down to darkness for.

O God, to think what I am writing
Will be ever as this!

O God, to think that my own face
May some day glare from this dust!