a long way after the Italian of Leopardi
What was that unripe bitter time called life
When we could shake our limbs
And hotfoot with the best of them?
Compressing garlic with a knife
Or singing harvest hymns,
Was all that jazz the snagging of a hem?
What were we then?
Is it too late to reach that state again?
Are armoured chariots still raced
At Karnak, where the makers traced
Blueprints to craft an automatic car
For Amun-Ra?
The sun will soar tomorrow, while we lie
In sand-nudged pyramids:
Sacred shapes that symbolise
Perfected form, which cannot die.
Below resplendent lids
Survive our carven and enduring eyes.