With the Holy Poem

H. Leivick

1922

With the holy poem
clenched between my teeth,
I set forth alone
from that wolf-cave, my home,
to roam
street after street
like a wolf
with his solitary bone.
There is prey enough in the street
to sate wolf-hate, wolf-lust.
Sweet is the blood
that steams and drips
from flesh,
but sweeter the dry dust
that has settled on clamped lips.
Struggle…
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