Keys turning
rattling in the loose locks
  opening high the doors
that close again
like death-hours coming faster

the walls are white
and the line of beds is staring
all the bars go up and down
and none of them lead outward

and leaping eyes
    and stiff limbs
follow the crunch of the keys

I am powerful now
and I will break those that carry the keys
      with little hammers
small hammers
    which you will make for me
      and hide in the porridge
I will break all their heads
      and lay them in neat rows
    and we shall wave high the keys
    and open wide a million doors
and all of us shall dance in the snow
and that poor woman in the spiral casket
shall warm a wooden doll to her dress
        and lean her hair in the fire

the grating shall be taken from about the fire
  and the woman and the keys shall go within
    all of us
      shall
        dance
          within