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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=368074" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Egypt, Tobago</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">There is a shattered palm<br>on this fierce shore,<br>its plumes the rusting helm-<br>et of a dead warrior.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Numb Antony, in the torpor<br>stretching her inert<br>sex near him like a sleeping cat,<br>knows his heart is the real desert.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Over the dunes<br>of her heaving,<br>to his heart's drumming<br>fades the mirage of the legions,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">across love-tousled sheets,<br>the triremes fading.<br>Ar the carved door of her temple<br>a fly wrings its message.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He brushes a damp hair<br>away from an ear<br>as perfect as a sleeping child's.<br>He stares, inert, the fallen column.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He lies like a copper palm<br>tree at three in the afternoon<br>by a hot sea<br>and a river, in Egypt, Tobago</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Her salt marsh dries in the heat<br>where he foundered<br>without armor.<br>He exchanged an empire for her beads of sweat,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">the uproar of arenas,<br>the changing surf<br>of senators, for<br>this silent ceiling over silent sand -</div><div style="margin:10px 0">this grizzled bear, whose fur,<br>moulting, is silvered -<br>for this quick fox with her<br>sweet stench. By sleep dismembered,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">his head<br>is in Egypt, his feet<br>in Rome, his groin a desert<br>trench with its dead soldier.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He drifts a finger<br>through her stiff hair<br>crisp as a mare's fountaining tail.<br>Shadows creep up the palace tile.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He is too tired to move;<br>a groan would waken<br>trumpets, one more gesture<br>war. His glare,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">a shield<br>reflecting fires,<br>a brass brow that cannot frown<br>at carnage, sweats the sun's force.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It is not the turmoil<br>of autumnal lust,<br>its treacheries, that drove<br>him, fired and grimed with dust,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">this far, not even love,<br>but a great rage without<br>clamor, that grew great<br>because its depth is quiet;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">it hears the river<br>of her young brown blood,<br>it feels the whole sky quiver<br>with her blue eyelid.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She sleeps with the soft engine of a child,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">that sleep which scythes<br>the stalks of lances, fells the<br>harvest of legions<br>with nothing for its knives,<br>that makes Caesars,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">sputtering at flies,<br>slapping their foreheads<br>with the laurel's imprint,<br>drunkards, comedians.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">All-humbling sleep, whose peace<br>is sweet as death,<br>whose silence has<br>all the sea's weight and volubility,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">who swings this globe by a hair's trembling breath.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Shattered and wild and<br>palm-crowned Antony,<br>rusting in Egypt,<br>ready to lose the world,<br>to Actium and sand,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">everything else<br>is vanity, but this tenderness<br>for a woman not his mistress<br>but his sleeping child.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The sky is cloudless. The afternoon is mild.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Derek+Walcott">Derek Walcott</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=368074" data-title="Egypt, Tobago de Derek Walcott" data-description="There is a shattered palm on this fierce shore, its plumes the rusting helm- et of a dead warrior. Numb Antony, in the torpor stretching her inert sex near him like a sleeping cat, knows his heart is the real desert. Over the dunes of her heavin..."></div> </div> </div>
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