Just a medieval
sandal.

O what is left of the dances,
of the tournaments and songs,
of the hopes,
of the lady friends and enemies
from a vague feudal time.

So small for the weight
of any shod life,
through now it is nothing,
what was it: love? contempt?
it has become supernatural.

Under the hem of whose dresses?
On what hard floors?
—Oh, heavy castles! —
What wounded hearts?
Among whose thought,
sad? innocent? beautiful?
treading upon Good and Evil…

In the brief world time,
the slender foot of a slender woman
has left this sandal
as a little token.

It is only a half step
in space.

Does the other lie in some deep entrance?

One half of the measure
of what final music?

Just a medieval
sandal.

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