The poem
The prophetic tribe of the ardent eyes Yesterday they took the road, holding their babies On their backs, delivering to fierce appetites The always ready treasure of pendulous breasts.
The men stick their feet out, waving their guns Alongside the caravan where they tremble together, Scanning the sky their eyes are weighted down In mourning for absent chimeras.
At the bottom of his sandy retreat, a cricket Watched passing, redoubles his song, Cybele, who loves, adds more flower,
Makes fountains out of rock and blossoms from desert Opening up before these travelers in a yawn— A familiar empire, the inscrutable future.