Those men of gold still drink
Silver-whisky next to the volcanoes,
Their cities of wire and death
Their life a life-long Sunday.
Captain Nestares murdering still, Lead-head
His name exchangeable Souls made of gloss,
Graves in the sand and meadows of old blood,
Tears when we are alone,
Open eyes and a bitter wound, Inflamed, inflaming.
There is no forgetting.
Under hyazinths and reeds,
You, brother of all,
Your tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow Fire from your hands
Proclaiming the resurrection
Of the dissected butterflies.