THE WRECK OF THE ORPHIC TEMPLE Poem by Milorad Stojević

There is little iron and imagination
in the windy corridors.
They have spawned a cover of rain.
They say. Such a speaker
surely lost his head, or froze before
the mysteries had run their course.
Sacrifices take refuge in woods and fog.
A voice tells me: Beware of venomous
creatures, they are clothed like men
but feed on the strength of gods in strife.
The Sibyls are sung in a country of graves
and none will speak of poetry,
of its economy of expression.

The marble and spirals will not be substances,
still less linen. You might have dined
by night, croaked the magus, tricked out as fear,
and his painful knees protested: You think
you differ from the apparitions?
I said: The serpent is on its way
to drink your shadow, not mine, but he
will have none of it, as though
I lick my balsamed tongue.

Chimaeras will kill me.
The veins are glass.