He must go back to that small son; must listen
To the soft mother’s voice. Why had he stopped her?
“Quiet. No more talking.” Was even then
This mystery in his head, this hazy mirror
Of a much older birth? Who was it? When?
What torment not to remember. Just like this,
Yet where? He drove and thought; and was the image
Of a whole people, impotent to see now
The one god it had.
So three old friends,