And the Soul was alarmed

at five o’clock that faded blue afternoon.

The lip implored it between the linens

pouting like a bridegroom to his betrothed.

Thought, the great General, girded himself

with a deicidal lance.

The Heart was dancing; but then it sobbed:

was the bayadere slave wounded?

Not at all! It was just tigers given to running

so as to post themselves in that corner, and sadly watch

the sunsets arrive from Athens.

There will be no cure for this hospital of nerves,

for the great vexed encampment of this late afternoon!

And the General inspects sinister pains spreading swiftly there … in the narrow pass of my nerves!