<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=578381" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Song of the Borderguard</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The man with his lion under the shed of wars<br>sheds his belief as if he shed tears.<br>The sound of words waits -<br>a barbarian host at the borderline of sense.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The enamord guards desert their posts<br>harkening to the lion-smell of a poem<br>that rings in their ears. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> -Dreams, a certain guard said<br> were never designd so<br> to re-arrange an empire.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Along about six o'clock I take out my guitar<br> and sing to a lion<br> who sleeps like a line of poetry<br> in the shed of wars.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The man shedding his belief<br>knows that the lion is not asleep, <br>does not dream, is never asleep, <br>is a wide-awake poem<br>waiting like a lover for the disrobing of the guard; <br>the beautil boundaries of the empire<br>naked, rapt round in the smell of a lion.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">(The barbarians have passt over the significant phrase) </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> -When I was asleep, <br> a certain guard says, <br> a man shed his clothes as if he shed tears<br> and appeard as a lonely lion<br> waiting for a song under the shed-roof of wars.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I sang the song that he waited to hear, <br>I, the Prize-Winner, the Poet Acclaimd.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Dear, Dear, Dear, Dear, I sang, <br>believe, believe, believe, believe.<br>The shed of wars is splendid as the sky, <br>houses our waiting like a pure song<br>housing in its words the lion-smell<br> of the beloved disrobed.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I sang: believe, believe, believe.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> I the guard because of my guitar<br>belive. I am the certain guard, <br>certain of the Beloved, certain of the lion, <br>certain of the Empire. I with my guitar.<br>Dear, Dear, Dear, Dear, I sing.<br>I, the Prize-Winner, the Poet on Guard.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The borderlines of sense in the morning light<br>are naked as a line of poetry in a war.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Robert+Duncan">Robert Duncan</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=578381" data-title="The Song of the Borderguard de Robert Duncan" data-description="The man with his lion under the shed of wars sheds his belief as if he shed tears. The sound of words waits - a barbarian host at the borderline of sense. The enamord guards desert their posts harkening to the lion-smell of a poem that rings in t..."></div> </div> </div>

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