Two Death Poems

What do I even know? I an old whore,

Not even a courtesan to some lowly prince:

Face painted, at home in the shadows,

By candlelight my scars are barely visible.

The light escondeth our flaws, makes us

Acceptable, presentable, — admirable even

In the best of nights. I whisper only to those

Who have ears, my voice, being old, is frail

And my tongue commandeth no venom.

But it is late, and although still wrapped in

Night, too long have you already lingered

Here: the air is cold and heavy. There is

Snow on the roof of the houses at the village,

A pity they spoil the moonlight. I am myself

Now only shadow, my thin figure not a dance

But a spasm in this paper wall. I have told

You all that I know, all that I remember. I fear

No longer the blade you muster, I fear no more

Your taunts. If it shall be, then I ask you only

Swiftness in the exercise of your justice,

Not even mercy which I do not dare imagine

I merit, I an old whore in the shadows.

Carnifex I surrender my many sons to your hands,

Show mercy, just this once: are we not all flesh,

all children of the same earth, all sons of the same

Great Mother who commandeth us to fraternize and

Multiply in ardor on this sullen shore? When young

I thought to live two centuries, even three: in folly

To serve master of all Asia, as far even as the

Mouth of the Don, a leader among men. I was

Young, you must forgive me. And I die now but a

Child, petulant still, my voice quaking as only a

Wretch’s can, or one who hath avoided death

Too long, believing himself invincible. Now the

Revelation that no single bone in my body is

Holy mocks me and will mock me to the last second.