We
were a caravan, the score of us,
Camels
and dogs and rugs. We infidels,
We
passed for what we were, a flea-brained bunch
Determined
to be wise, and if we failed,
Experienced
at least. We heard that the sands
Turned
ruby when they were wet, but they were dry.
Advised
that the womenfolk were glorious
Beyond
appraisal, we saw only men,
And
they saw us and were not over pleased.
Far,
far too many stars for urbanites:
We
missed our meals and thought that we were brave.
Perhaps
we were. A little foolishness
Is
necessary for the gentle born.
Four
of us returned, we four who returned,
We
held our tongues and spent a year or two
Deciding
what was dream and what was not.
It
all was dream, the four of us conclude
And
watch TV and nod our grizzled heads,
And
some of them were probably attached.
Poems by Richard Epstein. Not much commentary, only one picture (sorry, Alice), and little disruption: just a place to find poems by Richard Epstein
Saturday, February 06, 2021
The Men Who Would Be Kings
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