Le sacre du printemps
Nijinsky, Paris, May 29, 1913
I have been offered a cup of alien wine,
ruby red, drawn from a blooded mind.
Nijinsky died looking at the sun
dreaming of trees falling
one, by one.
Paris, city of wizards waving wands of impatience,
quick men of words with wide capes
aflourish, spinning in measured rehearsals
where fawns die, looking at the sun.
The wine spills burning, firebirds
fly from my cup. The music of yesterday
still turning en pointe, his
tattooed mind still singing, son
of the Steppes, little boys from lands
of ice dance fastest, and
still I hear him singing.
My ears open to the wind;
tears of snow burn the cheeks of the dead
the scent of oranges.