THE WORD DEAD AND THE MUSIC MAD

Tim word on the hill The music in the water— The music reflects The word on the guitar.

When the guns spoke The fat poet fled Till he came to Lerida, Name peaceful as the dead.

The black spies watched Trellited`by balconies : The poet hid in a cellar : They reported to the police.

The police took down his name And the words from his mouth They found in his pockets A letter from the South.

While the police read the letter The poet stood silent Staring at a dream Of his childhood's violence.

He saw light flood a pillar Stating summer's total Sum A wolf leapt from behind it And devoured a white lamb.

The ink on the paper Seemed the wolf that tore The white flesh of innocence In a barbarous claw.

The black police seized his wrists And tied them in fetters They said " A socialist, Wrote you this letter."

They drew their revolvers And they shot him there On a midsummer day In peaceful Lerida.

The balconies clanged Their bars like guitars Where the spies and lies shone Through a night of stars.

The police dissected The tongues of peasants To cut out the words The poet had made pleasant.

A musician, friend Of the poet, rose His mind struck through With one song to compose.

The musician stared At the stillness of one word The splitting moment Of the single chord When space divides And the bullet flies And, spun into terror, Like worlds, float eyes.

The word was " death " And his mind froze Fixed in the madness Of terrible snows.

The word on the hill The music in the water— The music reflects The word on the guitar.

TEPHEN SPENDER.