Three Poems

Nothing at all happens—neither fear,
nor stiffening before the executioner:
I let my head fall on the hollowed block,
as on a casual lover’s shoulder.

Roll, curly head, over the planed boards,
don’t get a splinter in your parted lips:
the boards bruise your temples,
the solemn fanfare sounds in your ears,

the polished copper dazzles the eyes,
the horses’ manes toss—
O, what a day to die on!