Bright, yellow light that sleeps between the folds
Of marble hair, the eyes and flower of lips
That blossom as though love had breathed them whole
Upon the face—and so my mind must keep
Aware that some hard chisel, in a hand
Whose veins had lost their years to stone, had won
These lines from furtive rock, out of a land
Where gods were promises in wind and sun.
Now—its maker gone—it blindly stares; gaze bent
Against the dead, plain glass of second birth:
‘Found at the feet of the Acropolis’—
From land whose promises had lost their worth,
But whose labours’ fruits had perhaps been meant
For us: that line of eye, that flower of lips.
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