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Elegy

Three ancient faces wake me:
Ocean, who spoke with Claudius,
the North of ignorant
atrocious steel morning and night,
and Death, that other name
of incessant time that bites us.
The secular weight of that yore
history whether dreamed or not
kills me personally like guilt.
I think of proud ships returning
to sea the corpse of Scyld Sceaving
who ruled Denmark below the sky;
I think of that tall wolf, with reins
like serpents, who gave the burning bark
whiteness of a dead handsome god;
I think of pirates whose human flesh
is scattered in slime under heavy
seas their adventure;
I think of tombs navigators
saw on boreal Odysseys.
I think of my own, perfect dying,
without urn or tear.