The patient books stand sentinel
        around my bed like angel guards
        bewildered by my death, while I, --
        no more nor less dead than wound kings
        blindfolded mid coruscations
        in unglittering ebonies,
        -- lie dreaming of my lost legions
        who hailed me king in many tongues.

        Their voices murmur to be heard
        again, but all their orisons
        are drowned in brooks of rippling death
        and alltheir tears are leaf-locked in.

        Spiders weave cocoons for corpses.
          Bats squeak their joyous melodies.
        Dust falls as if from diggers' spades.
          I lie feigning mortality.

But suddenly one sees me move
and cries: "He wakes!" And another:
"�Se despierta!" Still another:
"Il ne dort plus!" And one more says;
"Er erweckt sich auf, Lieber Gott!"

 
        They throng around my coffin couch,
        unwind my false-worn winding sheet
        and lead me to my abjured throne.
        Full voiced they shout in unison:

                "Ave, Rex!  Te salutamus!"

        Haloes are hammered for a crown
        as we renew our fealties.

        October 3, 1971

Copyright 1998 by Ervin J. Dunham

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