Many tried to figure me out
so that they might ride me.
I shall be as the Sphinx
my back rough granite
under your feet,
my head turned
from your hectoring voice.
I do not deign to meet
your gaze.
It's my prerogative to contradict
myself in my stony head.
The game is not in my bed:
it plays itself out
under my derisive nose
as the Sun sets red and indifferent
to the West,
where dunes of tan African sand
kick up and set haze
On the horizon.
You stamp and wheedle.
I will not budge.
Throw your hypodermic
needle to the pile
of scree you climbed
up to get here.
You will not nudge
me from the eternity which teaches me.
No comments:
Post a Comment