Survivors
There are survivors.
Out of the sea they pull them,
the bronze companions,
no longer to float in the winds’ memories,
in the gulls’ shriek.
Let us be kind to them.
All winter—the waves
rolling over their pallidity—
they were quiet under the flesh,
they could find no home.
Who would cry for them?
Is it the punishment of a world gone dim
with madness? Under the eyelids
floats the wreckage of years,
wastage of strength, young manhood
On the pillage of the waves.