III

There is a strange forgiveness in the lie
that once kept ghosts outside the magic ring
and saved the lonely rhetorician's cry
from all the fury of the empty spring.

Time's pity for the aliens in its state
renewed the hope that they themselves had banned
promised new pain and freed them from the fate
of beasts and gods without a fatherland.

Now as but victims of its kindness seem
the variations on the sirens' call,
the unrequited passions for the moon—
while the inviolate climax of the dream
laughs in the grief of every city's fall,
rides in dark triumph down mind's afternoon.

H. Witheford