The Fountain Court; the market swirls
In coloured silks about the square,
The drooping banner stirs, unfurls,
At every movement of the air.
The sun beats down upon the throng,
And woven hangings shade each stall;
Bright cloth, bound fast by rope or thong,
Displays each trader's mark to all.
Beneath their breeze-stirred shades of cloth
The skilful folk display their craft;
A silk like gauzy wings of moth -
A keen axe-blade on patterned haft.
Other traders show their wares,
Jewel-colours glowing bright;
Pelts and furs of wolves and bears,
Gems afire with rainbow light.
As varied as the goods they trade
The crafters move with leisured grace
Or clumsy strength beneath the shade,
Each as agile as his race.
Furry pelt or feathered wing,
Muzzled face or fierce-beaked jaw,
Hands - like these the female flings
Out in gesture - nude of claw.
Common tongue between the races,
To kindred folk their native speech:
Fifty kinds from fifty places,
Their language differs, each from each.
And in the midst the fountain plays,
A falling arch of rushing sound
Whose silver spray on windy days
Bedews the flagstones all around.
Marketing done, I make my way
Towards that leaping water-tree,
Swamped in voices. What they say
Makes sense to most, but not to me.
The Common tongue in barnyard din
Is mingled here with Airlords' song -
With aching ears and rueful grin
I make my way among the throng.
My friends and I agreed to meet,
Compare and praise the things we'd bought,
And then together go to eat
At some stall of the Fountain Court.
Thugh I was late, there would at least
Be one out there awaiting me,
To guide me to the others' feast;
I wondered now, who would it be?
...