THE MURDER OF COUNT VON SPRITI

THE MURDER OF COUNT VON SPRETI

I

“Be a good boy, my son.” he told me but he was good and will never talk to me again If I had only known that last time I would have told him so much kissed him goodbye but we parted with scarcely a glance He is dead forever

Everyone could see I had been crying But what could I do

Now the moment for which I have been waiting alone here at last away from them all in the dark between sheets and I cannot cry I longed to cry alone but now I cannot

I feel empty Sleep is far but panic makes me shiver

How can I go on living tomorrow face mother and all the rest when he is gone forever They killed him A bullet went through his head I cannot sleep My cheek burns on the pillow When I pray I can only pray for vengeance Now I can only hate

II

“Be a good boy, my son. Look after your mother for me; And remember, above all other things, Do not hate Bitterness can only follow. Try to forgive them. I already have. There is much injustice in the world: Men were unjust to them; They were unjust to me If you continue The circle can never be broken. To do what they did Think what must have been done to them. You have lived in a comfortable world. My death now makes you burn with hate. Think of the unspeakable pain That lives in the hearts of my killers And try to forgive.”

III

I like to think of him As one of the lucky ones; His too early grief A sort of training. (The formality of “The Dance”: Watteau’s miniature adults, Never really children Expecting a paradise,

Growing without surprise; Not even dismayed By the screaming of the crowd Or the waiting guillotine.)

As we are dragged into the sun, Blindfolded, whimpering, crying, Waiting for the bullet His father’s death predicted, I like to think of him, Standing, hands tied at the back, Detached as St. Sebastian After his long preparation.