March

There's a wind blowing Cold through the corridors, A ghost-wind, The flapping of defeated wings, A hell-fantasy From meadows damned To eternal April And listening, listening To the wind I hear The throat-rattle of dying men, From whose ears oozes Foamy blood, Throttled in a brothel. I see brightly In the wind vacancies Saint Thomas Aquinas And Poetry blossoms Excitingly As the first flower of truth.