FRANCOIS VILLON
Put me in your tide and sweetly sooth me,
barren and alone, as - after all these years -
I return to these lanes and roadways of my
home. No one shall recognize me, of that
I'm fairly certain - all of my restrictions and
myths will have that covered. Any tales about
me will scare them off, (No? Villon? I? -
yet still you thinkest they would know).
-
The farms, for sure, have grown since I last saw
saw them, into some more slumbering giants;
stretching now for miles over hill and dale. Caverns,
caves, and rivers still remain. I guess the village ale
retains the selfsame taste as when that brew I lastly
smooched. And nothing would have changed beyond
my simple recognition (but for I, for I, whom
no one now shall know).
-
That simple man who dreams - that farmer, and the
seamstress, those smoking smithy fires in the autumn
sun. Nothing changes half as much as does our expectation
of what is. I'll spend my time, perhaps, in revel, (that silver
lass for my own use I've still reserved and if she doth recall).
-
I cannot wait : 'tis near December and some fireside perhaps
she'll like to slumber at as I perform for her. Her father's surely
dead by now - that mooch whom all men hated has for sure
been pierced by now by some man's sword; an argument
or feud brought to fruition.
-
So as I say, dissolve me, little hamlet, deep within your
bosom once again - where I may live forever, fast and still
and small and near forgotten. (I shall love the anonymity now
for sure, since after these long years my fame I do abjure).
No comments:
Post a Comment