Opening your eyes to the son who's left,
Those workers,
you say,
are peifect gentlemen.
I take your arm, it's time for exercise; we join
The others, hugging those hearts to their chests.
STUART
DISCHELL
The Retirement of the Troubadour
How simple the words seem,
Slight and well meant,
Not a crime but not an achievement,
He mourns for each of them.
When they came from him they were bright.
It is we who have tarnished them.
1I
The subjects were the hea rt and hurt.
Hardly popular in any age.
No pity please. That life was sweet
As sleeping late. Women and men
At their various situations,
In language any fool could understand .
III
Cathedrals rising from the fields,
Those images spoke for themselves
And of the rooms he had inhabited,
Shrines to the demi- and full goddesses.
The smell of the sex on his body,
In the h3lf-light his unsung 3ubades.
