‘My mother says I have a choice’
The world can do without my name.
Give me a happy backwoods: servants,
a palace, fleets, taxes, maybe a pet too;
a life well lived as any. Pride, I fear,
is pointless. There are no kings, or pawns,
only squares, and a limited number of moves.
Tell me, mother: how long is everlasting?
Not long enough. Let Troy and Greece
fight on without me; no doubt they will. I,
on the other hand, once buried, will fertilize
the green that grows around their ruins, and
like ivy choke their stones, until they crumble:
crumbling, turn to sand.