The prince
Presses to his side battles and kingdoms.

Once
He had guarded over the gentle
And fine.
He had grown young in his war robes.

Now he sits clouds
Over a forgotten plough
And ages in his sleeves.

The fool stands on his head
And walks on his hands.
Red eyes, pale feet.
He says he's stuck,
He does not remember
Which side is the right side up.

Divakar was smooth faced.
Now he has a beard on his chin.

The scholar rode a broken cycle.
But he walks now.
Carries his soap and toothbrush in his pockets.
Leaves his cigarettes
Three in a row,
Their long ash-heads
Neat and balanced on coffee tables.

Sir says he'd write his magnum opus
Some day.
Pound and Joyce! Finnegans Wake!

Would you come Krishn?
This year to this city
Where the gods no more make stand,
Where the man is too weak to be a boy
And the child never grows to be a man?

next: nothing