Clutching at this eleventh hour
Cries becloud the confused, ailing air;
Genuflections are common without songs of praise,
The tongue having been glued to the palate . . . .
Dis-virgining verdant forests’ footpaths,
The evenings aglow with billowing tongues of
Fire shimmering at the foot of the
Hombori.
......
What prayers do I say
At the catacombs
This morning of high dew?
And who shall burn a taper
Behind me
To ease the ghost-darkness of a
Frightened city?
What stanza of the paternoster
......
Clutching at this eleventh hour
Cries becloud the confused, ailing air;
Genuflections are common without songs of praise,
The tongue having been glued to the palate . . . .
Dis-virgining verdant forests’ footpaths,
The evenings aglow with billowing tongues of
Fire shimmering at the foot of the
Hombori.
......
What prayers do I say
At the catacombs
This morning of high dew?
And who shall burn a taper
Behind me
To ease the ghost-darkness of a
Frightened city?
What stanza of the paternoster
......