Scarlet Rouge

Golgotha.

I shout!,

it turns out.

It turns

out:

my harbour

burns.

 

Aloud

hushs me

proud

(once was it mine):

within the decline

of my knee,

“flee!”

Achill

yelled at me

(up from his

tendon?); –

 

He was

my will;

now, he’s

my cross;

he is

my loss, –

the fall

from my hill.

 

Since then

I fell,

I

burst

into splinters:

through –

all of my

winters

they drove

their rallye

– ignoring

my scream –

down

in the valley.

 

Thither,

where

my old boats

steam;

there where…

my precious

– lies in ashes.

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