[36]

PRISONERS

It is strange that I should want

this sight of your face—

we have had so much:

at any moment now I may pass,

stand near the gate,

do not speak—

only reach if you can, your face

half-fronting the passage

toward the light.

Fate—God sends this as a mark,

a last token that we are not forgot,

lost in this turmoil,

about to be crushed out,

burned or stamped out

at best with sudden death.

The spearsman who brings this

will ask for the gold clasp

you wear under your coat.

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