as over me towered the angry turban
in the reeling sun,
and with a leaf-thin swish of steel,
with an irised flash
of light on dragon-fly wings,
in an arc the scimitar
blazed and descended.
But only a dead leaf fell across my neck,
for he was nothing but a tall sunflower,
a gaunt leering sunflower,
whose day was about over,
flapping blighted arms
in the incense of kindling earth.
VII
The parched grey earth is hot to the bare hands.
The dust between the tangled grass stems
has a bitter scent.
Would you know your own words now, poet?
Would your dust thrill at the sound of them,
hear and glow for a little
with the old fire?
Listen, it goes like this:
VIVAMUS MEA LESBIA ATQUE AMEMUS
NOBIS QUAM SEMEL OCCIDIT BREVIS LUX
NOX EST PERPETUA UNA DORMIENDA.
DA MI BASIA MILLE . . .
Do you remember that, Roman?
You'll not answer, I think.
Only the gold silence of the ending afternoon.
NOX EST PERPETUA UNA DORMIENDA.
The dust between the tangled grass stems
has an acrid taste
of gall and hellebore.
