Saturday, June 16, 2012

Enoch Powell: First Poems: IV) Amofortas

IV)              Amofortas

I knew not, asked not, never guessed,
While yet I might have healed,
The secret of another breast,
For me concealed.

But now in mine it burns and bleeds,
The wound that will not close again,
And all my agony but feeds
The undying pain.

Too late with open eyes I trace
In every tortured line
Writ large upon another face
A wound like mine.

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