The Fugue Of Us, Ah! It Remains Poem by Emmanuel George Cefai

The fugue of us, ah! it remains
so cold!

the fugue arises slow like a morbid
snake

the fugue detaches us from town and
crowd

and sings its lonely veil of black
ordering

no wonder, no wonder, it rises though
slow

feeds on my blood, that was sad blood,

the fugue, the morbid fugue, that now
ends

what with my father's birth began
about ninety years ago

for to-day my father, my poor father
would be round ninety

and with that fugue ends all us, father
mother son

the fugue of the extinct, where hope is knifed.