What nostalgia of sea
And free new-scented spaces
dreams of towns vermillion-gate
Must be in their blood as in mine
That the sailors long so in singing.
Churned water marbled astern
Grey riverbanks in the dusk
Melting away into mist
And a shrill wind hard off the sea.
O the voices of sailors singing.
II
Padding lunge of a camel's stride
turning the sharp purple flints. A man sings:
Breast deep in the dawn
a queen of the east;
the woolen folds of her robe
hang white and straight
as the hard marble columns
of the temple of Jove.
A thousand days
the pebbles have scuttled
under the great pads of my camels.
A thousands days
like bite of sour apples
have been bitter with desire in my mouth.
A thousand days
of cramped legs flecked
with green slobber of dromedaries.
At the crest of the road
that transfixes the sun
she awaits
me lean with desire
with muscles tightened
by these thousand days
pallid with dust
sinewy
naked before her.
Padding lunge of a camel's stride
over the flint-strewn hills. A man sings: