Crosses

Poems are poets' holy crosses

On which they bleed in silence,

Struck blind by phantom swarms

Of fluttering vultures.

Swords have feasted on their bodies,

Reveling in the scarlet blood!

Poems are poets' holy crosses

On which they bleed in silence.

Dead the head, the tresses stiffened,

Far away the noisy rabble.

Slowly the sun sinks,

A red royal crown.-

Poems are poets' holy crosses.