By a pale moon and cockcrow clouds
the countless occasionally ends.
Variation on Tu Ch’ang’s
In Praise of Huachig Palace
It was a long time ago—there and then—
a woman of May came and drew up close.
Why, one luminous auburn flame she was
though in twilight she was darkly swathed
while the night—the night of fragrant May—
began to thread and knot its waking dreams
into the sands within men’s insensible sleep.
A true woman of May I knew she was—
and all alabaster flawless underneath,
and down there on her waist too many
a stare is found and lost—and, surely,
one from the Sirens’ flock whom no one,
alive still or no more, is granted to forget
inside the web of this Scheherazade’s song.
No comments:
Post a Comment