I am the representative of those Clay-faced sucklers of spade-handles Mute peasants for whom Apollo blows Aesthetic winds in nine-day-laboured scandals. I am the hoarse cry of creatures who Have never scratched in any kind of hand On any wall the signs by which they knew The endurable stone in the phantasmic land. Their history is a grain of wheat. A season The cycle of a race that will persist When all the scintillating tribes of Reason Are folded in a literary mist. Fear-grey men of doom have kept for me The foot-grip of an ancient surety.
§ Marked: ‘Dub Mag’.