The Arabs were only half right, though they hinted the whole;
Everlasting lament in everlasting desire.
See him standing with his head down, near the Porta Cappuccini,
Asinello,
Somaro;
With the half-veiled, beautiful eyes, and the pensive face not asleep,
Motionless, like a bit of rock.
Has he seen the Gorgon’s head, and turned to stone?
Alas, Love did it.
Now he’s a jackass, a pack-ass, a donkey, somaro, burro, with a boss piling loads on his back.
Tied by the nose at the Porta Cappuccini.
And tied in a knot, inside, dead-licked between two desires:
To overleap like a male all mares as obstacles
In a leap at the sun;
And to leap in one last heart-bursting leap like a male at the goal of a mare,
And there end.
Well, you can’t have it both roads.
Hee! Hee! Ehee! Ehow! Ehaw!! Oh! Oh! Oh-h-h!!
The wave of agony bursts in the stone that he was,
Bares his long ass’s teeth, flattens his long ass’s ears, straightens his donkey neck,
And howls his pandemonium on the indignant air.
Yes, it’s a quandary.
Jesus rode on him, the first burden on the first beast of burden.
Love on a submissive ass.
So the tale began.
But the ass never forgets.
The horse, being nothing but a nag, will forget.
And men, being mostly geldings and knacker-boned hacks, have almost all forgot.
But the ass is a primal creature, and never forgets.
The Steppes of Tartary,
And Jesus on a meek ass-colt: mares: Mary escaping to Egypt: Joseph’s cudgel.
Hee! Hee! Ehee! Ehow-ow-!-ow!-aw!-aw!-aw!
All mares are dead!
Or else I am dead!
One of us, or the pair of us,
I don’t know—ow!—ow!
Which!
Not sure—ure—ure
Quite which!
Which!
Taormina.