Long hours trail in their purple and long years are lost in just this moment while our souls are near, our mouths separate.
Light threatens, is active, is gone, so it is with a song.
The laying of fish on the embers, the taste of the fish, the feel of the texture of bread, the round and the half-loaf, the grain of a petal, the rain-bow and the rain.
Ardent yet chill and formal, how I ache to tempt a chisel as a sculptor.
Maid of the luminous grey-eyes, Mistress of honey and marble implacable white thighs and Goddess, chaste daughter of Zeus.
There must be real gods see, the painted gods how fair!
My eye-balls are glass, my limbs marble, my face fixed in its marble mask.
Take what the old-church found in Mithra's tomb, candle and script and bell, take what the new-church spat upon and broke and shattered.
The stallion and his mare, unbridled, with arrow-pattern, are worked on. the blue cloth before the door of religion and inspiration.
(Those women whom the distaff no longer claims nor spun cloth) driven made, mad, mad by Bacchus.
Lovers may come and go, there was the memory of blood, the low call.
Love, why have you sought the horde of spearsmen, why the tent Achilles pitched beside the river-ford?
Who dreams of a son, save one, childless, having no bright face to flatter its own, who dreams of a son?
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