And where has the daylight gone, so quickly, so quickly?
Has it fled from the ambiguities to which life has reconciled?
Has it taken a pillow and gone to sleep on the porch?
Or is it hiding, looking after here and there,
Peeling the skin off grapes red and green,
Kissing the backs of hands unseen, waiting to be mistaken for a fool.
And to where has that brute, Zeus, gone, so quickly, so quickly?
Has he found her company untrue? Weak? Mild? can he not forgive a broken child?
Who will now watch his cold stone hands light torches?
At the sound of his voice who will shiver? Who will weep?
And at which point and in which decide,
Did the stone figure of Socrates decide to settle himself in the ground?
Why has it been so long since he has spoken?
Have ruthless whisperings rendered his soul broken?
Has he now been forever silenced?
And where has the wrinkled peddler gone, so quickly, so quickly?
Has he no more fruit to offer? No more apples?
Has he sold them all in England to the Queen? In Egypt to the Pharaoh?
Has he eaten them himself out of loneliness? sorrow?
Or has he buried them deep into the ground so as not to be reminded
Of the fuss that such apples once caused?
And why are you so calm? Do you not care?
You who sit here parting your hair...
You realize of course, dear Lily, that your hair will remain
When all of Egypt has gone to ruin;
For even the Pharaoh did not have so very many mirrors.