The Light Wraps You

The light wraps you in its mortal flame.

Abstracted pale mourner, standing that way

against the old propellers of the twighlight

that revolves around you.

Speechless, my friend,

alone in the loneliness of this hour of the dead

and filled with the lives of fire,

pure heir of the ruined day.

A bough of fruit falls from the sun on your dark garment.

The great roots of night

grow suddenly from your soul,

and the things that hide in you come out again

so that a blue and palled people

your newly born, takes nourishment.

Oh magnificent and fecund and magnetic slave

of the circle that moves in turn through black and gold:

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