I saw in a tall room
Over the thoroughfare,
A lady, by her moans,
Sprawled on a lion skin
In the April sunlight
Intensely streaming in
Like her long blond hair.
But not a thing stirred
As in dry Khufu’s tomb.
And this is not a dream.
The bullet on the right
Bore ruin to her bone,
And I wept like a bird.

Last Modified 1 July 2007
© David Lyttle 1959, 2007