We must look forward also to the springtime of the body.
Minucius Felix
In distant orchards green cicadas hum;
Their wings are folded in a brittle prayer.
When will the springtime of the body come?
Can you not hear the blind guitarist strum
Songs on the hollow body of despair?
In distant orchards green cicadas hum,
While pigeons squabble for a single crumb
Of stale bread on the smooth cathedral stair.
‘When will the springtime of the body come?’
Asks pale Athena, who has long been numb,
And waits for wind to loose her marble hair.
In distant orchards green cicadas hum.
The rain is beating like a toy tin-drum
That heralds war, the earth is pale with fear.
When will the springtime of the body come?
The poor are begging in the radiant slum,
Beside the palace in St. Peter’s square.
In distant orchards green cicadas hum.
When will the springtime of the body come?