into the earth that nourished it; and nightmares, born of these and the grim dominion of stale air and rank moisture. Those nearest the door grow strong —
‘Elbow room! Elbow room!’ The rest, dim in a twilight of crumbling utensils and broken pitchers, groaning for their deliverance, have been so long expectant that there is left only the posture.
A half century, without visitors, in the dark — poor preparation for the cracking lock and creak of hinges; magi, moonmen, powdery prisoners of the old regime,
and insomnia, only the ghost of a scream shows there is life yet in their feverish forms. Grown beyond nature now, soft food for worms, they lift frail heads in gravity and good faith.
They’re begging us, you see, in their wordless way, to do something, to speak on their behalf or at least not to close the door again. Lost people of Treblinka and Pompeii! ‘Save us, save us,’ they seem to say,
‘ let the god not abandon us who have come so far in darkness and in pain. We too had our lives to live. You with your light meter and relaxed itinerary, let not our naive labours have been in vain!’