Let not my son be remembered in any
stubborn way that wields or any ardor
that befalls. Let no trumpet
or banner like the sun signal him in strange
recollection. Instead, let the stories range
at will, distort his cunning and intent
that his image might become, like armor,
a shifting shell that meets whatever need.
In this veiling way, let his people
always be those who turn the molten
streets into paths a journey must understand.
Not those who rail but those who sigh and ripple
and so conjure fugues more lunatic than war
and live as rebels singing orders to order.