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It seems to me sometimes my blood is bubbling out
As fountains do, in rhythmic sobs; I feel it spout
And lapse; I hear it plainly; it makes a murmuring sound:
But from what wound it wells, so far I have not found.
As blood runs in the lists, round tumbled armoured bones,
It soaks the city, islanding the paving-stones;
Everything thirsty leaps to lap it, with stretched head;
Trees suck it up; it stains their trunks and branches red.
I turn to wine for respite, I drink, and I drink deep;
(Just for one day, one day, neither to see nor hear!)
Wine only renders sharper the frantic eye and ear.
In terror I cry to love, "Oh, put my mind to sleep!"
But love for me is only a mattress where I shrink
On needles, and my blood is given to whores to drink.
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