Macabre

The black bats wheel under the rafter,

Their sharp cries falling like mocking laughter

On the still air;

And there, and there

On the death-still air

Lie long red streamers of dusty sun,

And one by one

The slow ants crawl on the darkening floor.

Until at last one hears no more

Of the mocking laughter,

Until remains under the rafter

No sound, no sun.