What Traders Be These Poem by Emmanuel George Cefai

What traders be these? In a vague
Vision they move on mules and
Horses.
The city to which the go
Rarifies in the distant airs
Mirages of a red desert
Hats of hot air and dust
That yet
Obfuscate not transparence
Beautiful.
In the queen waters the bees
And the black flies still him
Adjusting to their circumstances.
Beautiful is the South though
It groans under the stresses
And waters pass
Through the syringes of time
And lust.
Floated
All bloated the body in the
Bath
For time had passed
Was passing.
The vision of the Night
I saw through the thin eyes
Of brazen dusk
Mules passed and crossed
Slow and tired
The threshold
Into the fabulous night
The waters are ever-changing.

Hoots
Galore
In
The
Tempest
Of
Night
That
Rose
Out
Of
Its
Time
‘the
Time
Is
Off.
The
Time
Is
Past'
The
Prophet
Erect
Said.
And
Murmured
As
A
Prayer.

Let
There be repetition in
The song
And chant of the Poet Seer
Not drawl but full pitched
Voices.
For in the repetition
There was the whistling
In the Soul that
Kept the words and
Concepts in nay
Fired them to mix
And reproduce forms,
Other forms, vast, many
And inflexible:
They had to be held
Sub-Conscious replacing Conscious.
Close not your eyes in sorrow
Now
That you in the Sub-Conscious be.
I feel the pulse
Of the strain on the nerves
The hammer beating in the head
I feel
The Sub-Conscious feel I
Now.
Before there was the Conscious.