Had I not grown suddenly short of breath, <br />I'd have sung hosannas. But the poor beast <br />that I found lay martyred beyond its death. <br /> <br />The holy sun was rising in the East, <br />and I was watering bright illusions <br />as sweet and as old as Plato and Christ. <br /> <br />Birds in arbours were making allusions <br />to Eden, and I was bound for a tryst <br />with a seamstress, with Angel Jones of Mold. <br /> <br />But the writhing and the buzzing woke me <br />and the foul stink in the mystical gold, <br />for, breathless, I stopped and wept to behold, <br />as some dead poet's angry stick poked me, <br /> <br />a fawn in a laughing hyena's hold.<br /><br />Leo Yankevich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/had-i-not-grown-suddenly-short-of-breath/
