July 11, 2010

from Another Life, by Derek Walcott

And which of them in time would be betrayed

was never questioned by that poetry

which breathed within the evening naturally,

but by the noble treachery of art

that looks for fear when it is least afraid,

that coldly takes the pulse-beat of the heart

in happiness; that praised its need to die

to the bright candour of the evening sky,

that preferred love to immortality;

so every step increased that subtlety

which hoped that their two bodies could be made

one body of immortal metaphor.

The hand she held already had betrayed

them by its longing for describing her.

•