Rome
the joys of stealth
when we lie white in our mourning slumber 
when our skin smells of sun 
the filthy mass that moves and talks 
is swept into the sea, is gone 
when we are naked, when we're on fire 
when we render secret tribute to 
this pain we fake, this blue desire 
love is still our craving and our shame 
when they come to me 
laughing and howling 
when they thrust their anguish into me 
and lick the blood as it runs down 
they don't give place to youthful bloom 
not then, not now 
in the leaves of blood, in the life of the tribe 
i am dead to all the world 
except when the noises sleep or hide