For a change of pace, how about a little Borges?
Jorge Luis Borges
(trans. Guy Conner)
I dream of an ancient king,
His crown of iron, his look of death,
There are no faces like that nowadays,
You sense his firm blade will obey him, loyal, like a dog
I do not from where he comes – Northumbria or Norway;
I only know that he comes to us from the North,
Close cut red whiskers everywhere;
Never have I seen the like;
Such empty eyes.
From what strange looking-glass,
From what wild sea-faring adventure,
Has this man, this gray and grizzled man,
Burst forth to oppress me with his bitterness?
I know that was a dream, and I treat it as a dream.
Day becomes Night;
I don’t know where it has been.