The man at the gate wears black and does not weep when he sees me
His cheeks are robust and his windblown hair is blonde and free
The birds rest and are silent specters in the trees
Around his neck is a golden chain with a small bone white key
His mouth is open, speaking soothing nonsense day and night.
The man at the gate sees all that lays before him,
by night or day,
he holds the sun in thrall…