No Resurrection

Friendship, when a friend meant a helping sword, Faithfulness, when power and life were its fruits, hatred, when the hated Held steel at your throat or had killed your children, were more than metaphors. Life and the world were as bright as knives. But now, if I should recall my ruins From the grass-roots and build my body again in the heavy grave, Twist myself naked up through the earth like a strong white worm, Tip the great stone, gulp the white air, And live once more after long ages In the change of the world: I should find the old human affections hollowed. Should I need a friend? No one will really stab me from behind, The people in the land of the living walk weaponless. Should I hate an enemy? The evil-doers Are pitiable now. Or to whom be faithful? Of whom seek faith? Who has eaten of the victor's feast and shared the fugitive silence Of beaten men on the mountain: suffer Resurrection to join this midge-dance Of gutted and multiplied echoes of life in the latter sun? Dead man, be quiet. A fool of a merchant, who'd sell good earth And grass again to make modern flesh.