His large ears Hear everything A hermit wakes And sleeps in a hut Underneath His gaunt cheeks. His eyes blue, alert, Disappointed, And suspicious, Complain I Do not bring him The same sort of Jokes the nurses Do. He is a bird Waiting to be fed,— Mostly beak— an eagle Or a vulture, or The Pharoah's servant Just before death. My arm on the bedrail Rests there, relaxed, With new love. All I know of the Troubadours I bring to this bed. I do not want Or need to be shamed By him any longer. The general of shame Has discharged Him, and left him In this small provincial Egyptian town. If I do not wish To shame him, then Why not love him? His long hands, Large, veined, Capable, can still Retain hold of what He wanted. But Is that what he Desireed? Some Powerful engine Of desire goes on Turning inside his body. He never phrased What he desired, And I am his son.

— Robert Bly

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#troubadors #death