III

4 0 00

III

See!

Ashur-ban-i-pal,

the archer king, on horse-back,

in blue and yellow enamel!

with drawn bow⁠—facing lions

standing on their hind legs,

fangs bared! his shafts

bristling in their necks!

Sacred bulls⁠—dragons

in embossed brickwork

marching⁠—in four tiers⁠—

along the sacred way to

Nebuchadnezzar’s throne hall!

They shine in the sun,

they that have been marching⁠—

marching under the dust of

ten thousand dirt years.

Now⁠—

they are coming into bloom again!

See them!

marching still, bared by

the storms from my calendar

—winds that blow back the sand!

winds that enfilade dirt!

winds that by strange craft

have whipt up a black army

that by pick and shovel

bare a procession to

the god, Marduk!

Natives cursing and digging

for pay unearth dragons with

upright tails and sacred bulls

alternately⁠—

in four tiers⁠—

lining the way to an old altar!

Natives digging at old walls⁠—

digging me warmth⁠—digging me

sweet loneliness⁠—

high enamelled walls.