Classic Poem

Intensities of pain—
of those once persecuted
and those once executed.

The scientific gain
belongs to us, but who knows
of Giordano Bruno’s

suffering on the square,
tongue-tied on cobble stone,
as he met fire alone?

Around him everywhere:
wine spilt amid the jeering,
grimaces and cheering,

squeals from a paederast,
smiles from thieving hawkers,
bishops, whores, and gawkers.

—“Into the Tiber, cast
his ashes! ” —could be heard,
“for every wicked word.”