The man with his lion under the shed of wars br sheds his belief as if he shed tears. br The sound of words waits - br a barbarian host at the borderline of sense. br br The enamord guards desert their posts br harkening to the lion-smell of a poem br that rings in their ears. br br -Dreams, a certain guard said br were never designd so br to re-arrange an empire. br br Along about six o'clock I take out my guitar br and sing to a lion br who sleeps like a line of poetry br in the shed of wars. br br The man shedding his belief br knows that the lion is not asleep, br does not dream, is never asleep, br is a wide-awake poem br waiting like a lover for the disrobing of the guard; br the beautil boundaries of the empire br naked, rapt round in the smell of a lion. br br (The barbarians have passt over the significant phrase) br br -When I was asleep, br a certain guard says, br a man shed his clothes as if he shed tears br and appeard as a lonely lion br waiting for a song under the shed-roof of wars. br br I sang the song that he waited to hear, br I, the Prize-Winner, the Poet Acclaimd. br br Dear, Dear, Dear, Dear, I sang, br believe, believe, believe, believe. br The shed of wars is splendid as the sky, br houses our waiting like a pure song br housing in its words the lion-smell br of the beloved disrobed. br br I sang: believe, believe, believe. br br I the guard because of my guitar br belive. I am the certain guard, br certain of the Beloved, certain of the lion, br certain of the Empire. I with my guitar. br Dear, Dear, Dear, Dear, I sing. br I, the Prize-Winner, the Poet on Guard. br br The borderlines of sense in the morning light br are naked as a line of poetry in a war.