Reading 2 - A Warbler Sang
A Warbler Sang . . .
A warbler sang from a scrubby bush, loud
In the afternoon, from a withered bush,
A warbler sang, and quivered and quailed,
As hot the heavy air, still and staid,
Wound through the low red square, and full
Its monotone grating, the grey-brown bird
Sang on, and I the tired traveller, waited
And sweated lime, as still the hot sun shone.
A warbler sang from a scrubby bush, still
That scrubby bush – discordant bush, as heavy
The evening fell, torporous the torpid evening fell;
And muffled in the soft-red warm-red sand, a child
Shuffled to where I sat and a warbler sang,
Beneath a withered bush strangely wound,
Harsh that withered sound, a withered child
Strangely wound, the grating grey-brown bird;
Loud, as other voices fell.
Beautiful child! - Awkward child! - Crippled child!
Beneath a withered bush strangely wound,
Lying limp, as twisted branches burned to soot,
His gnarled legs lie dirty in the sand;
A twisted cross of soot to mark,
The grey-brown world’s twisted dirge;
His sores, his ulcers, his boils,
His sufferings; festering for the feasting flies.
Faint in a low red square still and staid,
Beneath the clamour of-a Indifferent World,
I spent some time with a famished child,
We ran our fingers through and drew,
Letters in the soft-red warm-red sand,
And shyly spoke our names out loud,
And ate the meal of bread I bought,
And cola too, from a low red hut, until;
His sores, his ulcers, his boils,
His smile; bright in the evening light,
My gloom; the chilling feel of tomb.
