A lion came one night in a dream and told me
of what the future solely would consist:
reenacted events, scraps of lost melody,
former life and letters presented in snippets.
I might compose a poem or three on
his theme – not for you, but for my own amusement.
I’d begin right now, in fact, to sketch a paean,
had I not forgotten how the tunes went.
To be sure, had I a hundred and five odd tongues
I couldn’t present much more than a tenth of it.
But at least, then, I might relax my lungs
and console my dear self that I’d not spent my wit.
That I, while drafting fictions stranger than the law,
had come to know the lion by his claw.
Welcome to the Universal Pastiche. You’re it!
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