Speak not of guilt, speak not of responsibility. When the Regiment of the Senses parades by, with music, and with banners; when the senses shiver and… - Konstantinos P. Cavafy

The Tomb of Lanes Marcus, the Lanes whom you loved is not here
in this tomb where you visit and weep for hours.
The Lanes whom you loved is nearer, Marcus,
when you close yourself in your room and gaze on his portrait;
that image preserved all that was worthy in him;
that image preserved all that you loved. Do you remember, Marcus, when you brought
from the proconsul’s palace the famous painter from Cyrene,
and as soon as he laid eyes on your friend,
he tried to persuade you with his artist’s cunning
that he should draw him, without question, as Hyacinth
(that way the portrait would garner more fame)? But your Lanes didn’t put his beauty on loan like that;
firmly opposing the man, he demanded to be portrayed
not as Hyacinth, nor as anyone else,
but as Lanes, son of Rhametichus, an Alexandrian.

Before Jerusalem


Now they've come before Jerusalem.
Passions, avarice, and ambition,
as well as their chivalrous pride
have swiftly slipped from their souls.

Now they've come before Jerusalem.
In their ecstasy and their devoutness
they've forgotten their quarrels with the Greeks;
they've forgotten their hatred of the Turks.

Now they've come before Jerusalem.
And the Crusaders, so daring and invincible, so vehement in their every march and onslaught,
are fearful and nervous and are unable
to go further; they tremble like small children,
and like small children weep, all weep,
as they behold the walls of Jerusalem.

Walls

Without reflection, without mercy, without shame,
they built strong walls and high, and compassed me about.

And now I sit here and consider and despair.

My brain is worn with meditating on my fate:
I had outside so many things to terminate.

Oh! why when they were building did I not beware!

But never a sound of building, never an echo came.
Out of the world, insensibly, they shut me out.