by Joseph Auslander
'It is the end?' I said. Slowly he said
'It is the end.'
'Then she who was my beautiful pale friend
He turned away his head and shook his head.
The years are laggard cattle; the black years
Emptied of you
No centaur's hoof shall rouse nor all my tears
Quite creep through.
Your lids are locked: there is no more to do.
I cannot take your beauty out of my eyes;
I cannot close
The rumour of my blood though it denies
April and knows
The cold kiss of the shears of Atropos!
Last updated May 19, 2019