Last two stanzas from a long poem, The Fortunate Traveller (for Susan Sontag):
In loaves of cloud, and have not charity,
the weevil will make a sahara of Kansas,
the ant shall eat Russia.
Their soft teeth shall make, and have not charity,
the harvest’s desolation,
and the brown globe crack like a begging bowl,
and though you fire oceans of surplus grain,
and have not charity,
still, through thin stalks,
the smoking stubble, stalks
grasshopper: third horseman,
the leather-helmed locust.
© Derek Walcott, The Fortunate Traveller, 1981 (extract from Collected Poems, 1948-1984, Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1986, 1993)
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