My photographs always appeared too sweet,
and I never managed to reflect accurate songs
from my ancient heart out through my two
sugary eyes. Even my girlish cheeks betrayed
an affection for the comforts of modern England.

But never was I betrayed by my heart, never by
that olden beast, for it was there that screams
and trials pumped, peasant wearies and crusades
jumped fiery words forth from quilled pens
. . . it was there that pulsed the great desire

of the race to rise somehow from this mud
of the breathing ones, after falling
and falling again and again back
into our slippery selves, yet always,
incessantly, finding a cause to rise.

Nay, nay, nay, yea, nay, nay,
this is our way to find ourselves along
in the midst of the great muddy battle
of what it means to be alone in the breathing,
and this was the way of my aged heart’s song.