Like priestly imprisoned poets, br the poplars of blood have fallen asleep. br On the hills, the flocks of Bethlehem br chew arias of grass at sunset. br br The ancient shepherd, who shivers br at the last martyrdoms of light, br in his Easter eyes has caught br a purebred flock of stars. br br Formed in orphanhood, he goes down br with rumors of burial to the praying field, br and the sheep bells are seasoned with shadow. br br It survives, the blue warped br In iron, and on it, pupils shrouded, br A dog etches its pastoral howl.