  They are writing poems to you: White devils who have not Smeared the distant yellow of your life Upon their skins. Faces where snob and harlequin Ogle each other in two, cold colours, White and red; Faces where middle age Sits, tearing a last gardenia; Faces continually cracked By the brittle larceny of age; Faces where emotions Stand disarmed within a calm mirage: These faces bend over paper And steal from you a little silver and red So that their lives may seem to bleed Under the prick of a flashing need. The old and tired smile Of one who spies too much within himself To spare the effort of a halting frown, Brushed its sceptre over your face. You gave kind eyes to your hope, Desiring it to grope unfearing Underneath the toppling mountain-tops. The wine you drank was a lake In which you splashed and found a vigour; The wine you drank was void of taste. Your yellow skin resembled A balanced docility Smiling at all things—even at itself— Li T’ai Po. |
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