AnguishAnguish, anguish is my heritage,the wound of my throat,the cry of my heart in the world.Now the lathered sky congealsin the coarse hand of night;now the forestsand the rigid heightsrise barrenly againstthe dwarfed vault of the sky.How hard everything is,how stiffened, black and silent!I grope about this darkened room,I feel the sharp edge of the cliff against my finger.I tear my sore and aching handson the hills and darkened woods,on the black iron of sky