Upon the heavy feet of shuffling loves.
Gently, he plays with his beard
As though his fingers touched a woman’s hair.
And this young Slav whose surly blasphemy
Curls his face into a simple hate,
Has taken iron into his laugh
And uses it to hew his stony mind.
While this Italian whose deep olive skin
Shines like sunlight groping through dense leaves,
Forgets his battered happiness