BACK TO SHEILA FUGARD

           
            This ancient history
            Speaks from the mouths
            Underground spirits in wells
            I read it in my bones
            As if I too might be lost
            The body abandoned in these vaults
            Those of earth beneath and sky above
            All the old ways of being dead
            But to be remembered differently
            Reconstructed anew
            Become the plain chant of cathedrals
            A harpsichord of churches
            The instrument of all the spheres
            Rather to give memory its own score
            Within these fluted columns of Syracuse
            I begin a new life as song