Leashed Europe rises, and stretching
Roars for a knife to free
The watch hounds that baited
With bones in a bush cannot hand
Or handle their hunger. Europe, caged
And fed, speaks for her hounds free
And hungry. One forbidden. A continent
With river veins and county hearts
Will cough and weep, fall and speak.
Coming from a lift or park conversations
continuing with the breath, will gabble
At themselves and you on yesterday, tomorrow.
John Fairfax
FROM THE ARCHIVES AT MARl
My lord, I write once again
to give you news of this outlying province:
There is a high wind, cutting cold, tonight,
it blows down from the mountains to the north,
where the jackals, as usual, are howling;
but no doubt you will recall,
from your last progress through these eastern parts,
how little the Weather God favors this climate,
despite our sacrifices each year of one ox and two sheep.
What harvest there was has long since been gathered in
and the old moon dies tonight across the valley pass
as I suppose she must be dying
above the stone walls of your capitol at Mari
where I commanded in your army for so many years.
Several captains, now that winter is coming on,
prepare for the long journey west to the sea people,
while I remain here at my post, in exile.
