THEN when the bull lifts his white head,
My glorious girl, do you think you reign?
Do you not cringe, you who were so powerful?
We who stand firm, we brothers of the Minotaur,
We can tell you all the steep hoarse songs
Sung on an ancient continent now long sunk.
You cannot shield your breasts from the hooves of the bull.
There is a bellow sounding out of far old skies;
Lie down in the bloody grass and weep for the great eyes of cattle.