I am sick of all these sterile grimaces.
Maldor (speaks slowly)
Some new and lethal poem has sighed itself into your heart.
Sobe (softly)
There are no poisons remaining. We have signalled death with many diverting gestures. We have fitted too many clownish shrouds.
Maldor
You are wistfully nervous. Some dream has burned your heart to an ashen bag.
Sobe
I will tell you, Maldor, what I have done.