I was a good father to my people,
Their houses among the terraced hills
Adored God every day, grape-clusters on the vines
Made Christs blood richer in the goblet
My father gave me: the chased silver had vines
Round the stem and Cellini made it,
Let him take it to Rome, he had said,
The Pope will adore it. The backs of my people
Bent as I held it aloft with the Host,
The silver blazed in our eyes like the sun,
Their lips were cracked as they sipped
The delicate wine, the crook of my finger already
Held the ring of a Bishop but I would not go;
When the harvest is over, I said, let me bless
The gathered grapes, I love to watch the purple juice
Flowing from under their feet and the feast after.
But my father called, I left my people
With a sot who embarrassed the Bishop.
I was not long in my see, two Popes died quickly
And my fathers whispers never ceased, Rome called
And I was Cardinal at last. It is hot, fever-ridden,
No-one dare speak for the ears of spies;
I toss at night in my high room through my window
The villad hills, my private chapel has the goblet,
I hear my people starved in a famine,
Their harvest blighted for three years.
