Nothing with nothing.
The broken finger-nails of dirty hands.
My people humble people who expect
Nothing."

⁠lala

To Carthage then I came

Burning burning burning burning
O Lord Thou pluckest me out
O Lord Thou pluckest

burning

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell
And the profit and loss.

Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell
He passed the stages of his age and youth
Entering the whirlpool.

O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.

After the torch-light red on sweaty faces
After the frosty silence in the gardens
After the agony in stony places
The shouting and the crying
Prison and palace and reverberation
Of thunder of spring over distant mountains
He who was living is now dead
We who were living are now dying
With a little patience