The Song of the Borderguard

 The man with his lion under the shed of wars
sheds his belief as if he shed tears.

The sound of words waits -
a barbarian host at the borderline of sense.


The enamord guards desert their posts
harkening to the lion-smell of a poem
that rings in their ears.
 

-Dreams, a certain guard said
were never designd so
to re-arrange an empire.


Along about six o'clock I take out my guitar
and sing to a lion
who sleeps like a line of poetry
in the shed of wars.


The man shedding his belief
knows that the lion is not asleep, 
does not dream, is never asleep, 
is a wide-awake poem
waiting like a lover for the disrobing of the guard; 
the beautil boundaries of the empire
naked, rapt round in the smell of a lion.


(The barbarians have passt over the significant phrase) 

-When I was asleep, 
a certain guard says, 
a man shed his clothes as if he shed tears
and appeard as a lonely lion
waiting for a song under the shed-roof of wars.


I sang the song that he waited to hear, 
I, the Prize-Winner, the Poet Acclaimd.


Dear, Dear, Dear, Dear, I sang, 
believe, believe, believe, believe.

The shed of wars is splendid as the sky, 
houses our waiting like a pure song
housing in its words the lion-smell
of the beloved disrobed.


I sang: believe, believe, believe.


I the guard because of my guitar
belive.
 I am the certain guard, 
certain of the Beloved, certain of the lion, 
certain of the Empire.
 I with my guitar.

Dear, Dear, Dear, Dear, I sing.

I, the Prize-Winner, the Poet on Guard.


The borderlines of sense in the morning light
are naked as a line of poetry in a war.

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