Black Paintings

Here, in the Deaf Man's House,
I can hear screaming,
whether it is Saturn or his son,
I do not know.
Here, a few miles from Madrid,
I keep on dreaming
of Witches' Sabbaths or the Fates:
are they the same?
Here, on the edge of unreason,
I feel their scheming:
meanwhile I am painting blacker
not madder rose.