57

It was to you, always
And to you alone I sang—
Even when I sang to him. How ironic—
That he whose ear I eased with song—
And now I lie with lions
Fitful as he circles,

The human lion I sang to
Whose teeth are spears,
Whose tongue's a sword.

The usual net and pit
Have been prepared,
All of which I've seen before.

I will rise, early, sing, wait
For the trapper to be trapped
And sing to you again.


© Dan Goorevitch