Silence in the Circle

Silence in the Circle

It remains deathly quiet in Myriade, muses Marforio.

The hearth-fire fades;
Only two loud gentlemen shout,
Tasting kidneys and chanting texts—
From others not the faintest whistle.

In the garden a strange bird plays lute;
A bullfinch flaunts fire-red feathers
But scarcely tolerates the racket.
A heron stares gloomily at hidden prey.

No winter, yet long they sleep;
In Brabant and Holland sighs abound
At the din of two unruly apes.

The bullfinch yawns from boredom,
Joins a passing flock—
He cares not for others’ overcooked turnips.

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