To the prisoners of form: yes, escape is possible.
To the pensioners of time: no.
The doctors had assured them that that pain
On his face was only on his face, not in his mind.
That frown, those troubled lips, the scared look—
As if what he most feared, had come true.
But no, his soul was sleeping peacefully—
His dreams were sweet dreams of boys in cassocks,
Of young girls, not there for carnal knowledge
But for emulation—as if goats could be kids again
By pretending to be The Birth itself. True,
His face was afraid, almost. Truth:
‘Almost’ is a very big word here,
A mist over a time and place,
A mist to turn into a mystery.
To the prisoners, he was too big to see through
or around. His body was not of Shakespeare’s play.
He was not that old. He was not
0f that spirit, or made of those planets.
To the pensioners, his body was
almost of the ground—
almost touching it.