The fugue of us, ah! it remains
so cold!
the fugue arises slow like a morbid
snake
the fugue detaches us from town and
crowd
and sings its lonely veil of black
ordering
no wonder, no wonder, it rises though
slow
feeds on my blood, that was sad blood,
the fugue, the morbid fugue, that now
ends
what with my father's birth began
about ninety years ago
for to-day my father, my poor father
would be round ninety
and with that fugue ends all us, father
mother son
the fugue of the extinct, where hope is knifed.
Emmanuel George Cefai
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-fugue-of-us-ah-it-remains/
