The fading whistles outline our broken city
Against the dead chart and distant zodiac,
Against the decaying roads, empty and perilous,
That join our exile with the land we seek.
Kissed onward by the pistol, we all are exile,
Expatriate, wandering in the illusive streets
Of faked identity, which swing towards a past
That is no Indies regained by circuitous sea routes.
The bridges are down, the visas are invalid;
We cannot turn on our tracks away from fate.
I stand at the ‘phone and listen in to death,
And dare not stuff my ears and ring off hate.
Yet I behold an angel like a falcon
Bearing a speaking flame across the dark
To sing in the dumb streets of cretin children
For the silly hearts that cannot even break.
And under the windows of a drunken pub
A man sits, listening, like a wind-squat tree,
Unnamed, his face a map of paper, his bone hands
Moulding from the burning voice a phoenix day.
(George Woodcock)
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Based on Topics: Man Poems, Death & Dying Poems, Nature Poems, Fate & Destiny Poems, Past Poems, Speaking Poems, Angels Poems, Listening Poems, Hatred Poems, Identity PoemsBased on Keywords: invalid, faked, circuitous, expatriate, cretin