THE PANTHER

IN THE JARDIN DES PLANTES, PARIS

His gaze, from the passing of the bars,
has grown so tired that it holds nothing more.
To him it is as though there were a thousand bars
and behind a thousand bars no world.

The soft gait of supple, powerful steps,
which turns within the very smallest circle,
is like a dance of strength around a centre
in which a great will stands, stunned.

Only sometimes the curtain of the pupil
slides open soundlessly; then an image enters,
passes through the limbs’ taut stillness
and ceases to exist within the heart.