Who ruined the throne of Rome with a pardon
and, in the gooseflesh of their East,
dug his spurs;
Who signed his life and name to the letter for a shot–
one shot–
of pride, and pegged it upon the glanced path of
that one thirsty arrow.
There buckling with it in the clear Turkic wind,
his bet was lost unto the steppe
and in paining throes by the Oxus’ bank he cried,
“I’ve been killed
by pride!”
A pierced lion who in blood lay drowned;
a cub asleep in the black soil now.
