His large earsHear everythingA hermit wakesAnd sleeps in a hutUnderneathHis gaunt cheeks.His eyes blue, alert,Disappointed,And suspicious,Complain IDo not bring himThe same sort ofJokes the nursesDo. He is a birdWaiting to be fed,—Mostly beak— an eagleOr a vulture, orThe Pharoah's servantJust before death.My arm on the bedrailRests there, relaxed,With new love. AllI know of the TroubadoursI bring to this bed.I do not wantOr need to be shamed By him any longer.The general of shameHas dischargedHim, and left himIn this small provincialEgyptian town.If I do not wishTo shame him, thenWhy not love him?His long hands,Large, veined,Capable, can stillRetain hold of whatHe wanted. ButIs that what heDesireed? SomePowerful engineOf desire goes onTurning inside his body.He never phrasedWhat he desired,And I amhis son.