In hope of gold the ruins might reveal, Or some fine agate carved into a seal. But surely he enjoyed the evening breeze While sitting, as did I, among good friends, Lean, dark men sinewed like taut springs, Quick moving, nervous, garrulous as birds, With bubbling laughter welling up within At all our own absurdities. II September, overburdened with the heat, Makes moving of a limb an act of will. In feuds of ownership of barren fields. Neither your spells, old king, nor my vain threats Could stop the killing that this land begets.
Old images persist.
The reputation and the pride it gave. Old king, it must be quiet in the grave. We tried to force on anarchy a form, To press amorphous dust into a mould, Half hoping that the pattern would not hold. Wept for dead friends, your heirs, And was consoled by brothers of your tribe. Whose truths are tangled into fairy tales And turn to myths as recollection fails.