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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=448106" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Sons of Belial</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> We are old,<br> Old as song.<br> Before Rome was<br> Or Cyrene.<br> Mad nights knew us<br> And old men's wives.<br> We knew who spilled the sacred oil<br> For young-gold harlots of the town….<br> We knew where the peacocks went<br> And the white doe for sacrifice.<br>II</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> We were the Sons of Belial.<br> One black night<br> Centuries ago<br> We beat at a door<br> In Gilead….<br> We took the Levite's concubine<br> We plucked her hands from off the door….<br> We choked the cry into her throat<br> And stuck the stars among her hair….<br> We glimpsed the madly swaying stars<br> Between the rhythms of her hair<br> And all our mute and separate strings<br> Swelled in a raging symphony….<br> Our blood sang paeans<br> All that night<br> Till dawn fell like a wounded swan<br> Upon the fields of Gilead.<br>III</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> We are old….<br> Old as song….<br> We are dumb song.<br> (Epics tingled<br> In our blood<br> When we haled Hypatia<br> Over the stones<br> In Alexandria.)<br> Could we loose<br> The wild rhythms clinched in us….<br> March in bands of troubadours….<br> We would be of gentle mood.<br> When Christ healed us<br> Who were dumb—<br> When he freed our shut-in song—<br> We strewed green palms<br> At his pale feet…<br> We sang hosannas<br> In Jerusalem.<br> And all our fumbling voices blent<br> In a brief white harmony.<br> (But a mightier song<br> Was in us pent<br> When we nailed Christ<br> To a four-armed tree.)<br>IV</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> We are young.<br> When we rise up with singing roots,<br> (Warm rains washing<br> Gutters of Berlin<br> Where we stamped Rosa… Luxemburg<br> On a night in spring.)<br> Rhythms skurry in our blood.<br> Little nimble rats of song<br> In our feet run crazily<br> And all is dust… we trample… on.<br> Mad nights when we make ritual<br> (Feet running before the sleuth-light…<br> And the smell of burnt flesh<br> By a flame-ringed hut<br> In Missouri,<br> Sweet as on Rome's pyre….)<br> We make ropes do rigadoons<br> With copper feet that jig on air….<br> We are the Mob….<br> Old as song.<br> Tyre knew us<br> And Israel.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Lola+Ridge">Lola Ridge</a><div class=q>
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 We are old,
 Old as song.
 Before Rome was
 Or Cyrene.
 Mad nights knew us
 And old men's wives.
 We knew who spilled the sacred oil
 For young-gold harlots of the town….
 We knew where the peacocks went
 And the white doe for sacrifice.
II
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