By T.S Eliot
Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep- sea swell
And the profit and loss.
A current under sea
Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell
He passed the stages of his age and youth
Entering the whirpool.
Gentile or Jew
O you who turn the wheel and look to windward
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as
You
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