I swear it was an angel, said the captive near the end
who said that she said to him, this:
Are you thirsty, stranger? Has the road been long?
Come closer. Let me whisper of what is just beyond that bend.
They say there is a city of immortals somewhere, in celebration.
Who tells. Whose memory obeys command to speak.
What river, what other do you seek. All novelty, all knowledge, all oblivion.
Whose end, whose world. What immortality, and when.
Who is fluent in the customs of that place.
Who deserts before the spoiling.
Whose mother, what monsters, whose lips at that breast.
Who dazzled in what rays of that sun, when first.
Who from those shallow graves emerges to slake what thirst.
Whose prayer. What ear and when.
What ladder, whose wall, to what courtyard.
When joy, whose patience at the gates.
Where is the river that gives immortality and whose blood is in it,
and where is the empty canal that takes it away.
Whose will on what horse.
What labyrinth. Whose center. What well.
