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.