whom you raise he's writing with invisible ink in the bushes of childhood
who carried tercets with him in the fluttering coat
an outrage will he be to the plains in old age and stir them to rebellion
when in the wine yards hydraulic harvesters howl even in the most slanted position
shall he not be the one circling the inferno like a wolf-hound the sheep
or throw the enemy in front of your feet and kindle the fire and call 
                                                                                          so the lost find themselves
shall he not err about even there in the deepest place of the crater 
                                                                                       to find the gap for the ascent
and gowing lighter while rising ask someone often: who are they?
shall he not look for it on mantineian lips and not say: till here 
                                                                                              i have practiced myself?