Читать книгу Cave of Little Faces - Aída Besançon Spencer - Страница 5

From the Mother of the Islands,

on the vast, forbidding highlands,

watching from the forest fastness,

eyes of iron, will of stone.

Futilely pursuing treasure,

for the distant monarchs’ pleasure,

furtively, despite their crassness,

eyes of terror, all alone.

As their horses’ panting quickens,

stumbling, as briar thickens,

whinnying in steps of last stress

eyes extinguish, falling prone.

Soon they all discard their armor,

drag their swords before their harmer,

craving water, past disastrous,

eyes of naught but skin and bone.

Now their vanquisher with kindness,

Holy Writ dispelling blindness,

binds their wounds, restores with largesse

eyes that pledge and plead for home.

William David Spencer