"My Masters."
My masters are not infallible.
They are neither Goethe, who had a sleepless night
only when distant volcanoes moaned, nor Horus,
who wrote in the language of gods and altar boys.
My masters seek my advice.
In fleecy overcoats, hurriedly slipped on over their dreams,
at the dawn when the cool wind interrogates the birds,
my masters talk in whispers.
I can hear their broken speech.