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