1. <br />Beneath the clouds <br />in the corner of my faithless eyes <br />seven magpies have stolen away <br />the morning star. <br />Glory, glory! The rising sun <br />crowns the cathedral <br />in this town stopped still <br />in awe of blazing malachite. <br />Reborn are the winged shades <br />in the rookeries <br />to haunt dear heaven <br />with their pained pterodactyl cries. <br />Reborn are the grey pigeons <br />on the old market square <br />quarrelling with their enemies, <br />the dirty sparrows. <br /> <br />2. <br />Sancho, my old friend, <br />is it time to embrace more love, <br />to sit with the ageing harlots <br />mid the pews of Saint Anne, <br />though the heft on our backs <br />is heavier than the rood, <br />than the silent sermons <br />of characters stained in glass? <br />I’ve two coins in my pocket <br />as poisonous as lead, <br />enough for a flask of rum <br />or Hungarian wine. <br />Let’s park our gaunt donkey <br />beneath the Baroque clouds, <br />then limp back to the inn <br />for as long as there is time…<br /><br />Leo Yankevich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/cracow-at-dawn/
