The naked traveller,

Stretching, against the iron dawn, the bowstrings of his eyes,

Starves on the mad sierra.

But the sleepers,

Prisoners in a lovely world of weeds,

Make a small, red cry,

And change their dreams.

Proud as the mane of the whinnying air,

Yet humble as the flakes of water

Or the chips of the stone sun, the traveller

Is nailed to the hill by the light of March’s razor;

And when the desert barks, in a rage of love

For the noon of the eclipse,

He lies with his throat cut, in a frozen crater.

Then the sleepers,

Prisoners of a moonward power of tides,

Slain by the stillness of their own reflections,

Sit up, in their graves, with a white cry,

And die of terror at the traveller’s murder.