Peter Russell Poems
In The Campo De La Bragola
Sleep, sleep, with thy broken keys
Till Pilate wash his hands -
The time is cracked and memory flees
Bright afternoons of other lands.
What were thy once-tuned strings,
Childhood and fluting boy? -
Mornings of swift protecting wings,
Noons flecked with joy.
Blindly the hunter bat the twilight scours
In the dark enclosure of the Square;
Green fissured bronze rings out the hours -
The crowding ghosts halt on the stair.
Barbarian night creeps on the town.
The Councillors sit late.
Tiresias has rent his gown,
And the sentries...
In the deep valley
Dew drops from heaven
In the brain and belly
The paths shall be even
A virgin holds the Sun and Moon
In her two hands
There will be peace soon
In all the lands