He stands here at my left hand, though dead.
Noon high exactly, the sun on the red stone
Gives nothing a shadow. So, like him, I have none.
I too could be the illusion. It is as he threatened.
He has cruelly driven my eyes to stare overhead
Into the dark vacancy, where what is human
Is nothing. And on this desert earth, under the sun,
He has forced me to see that men are as he said.
Before he died, I loved him, long ago,
When I was held in a closed heaven. The moon came near,
A gust of apple petals fell in the odd light,
The pale grass felt warm, and, seeing him there,
I trusted the random blessing of that night.
But I was a child when I loved him. Now I don't know.