On scorched and conflagrated sands, In sapped and grudging desolation, The solitary Upas stands Grim sentinel of all creation. This thing was spawned one day of rage From nature of the thirsting plain That slaked the d**h-green foliage And deep-set roots with sap of bane. The venom oozes down the bark Turned liquid in the midday blaze, Congealing at the fall of dark To clots of cruel, translucent glaze. No tigers come, no birds alight. None but the wind's black breath will dare Circle around that tree of blight And leave with newly deadly air. And, should an errant cloud imbue With rain the rank leaves' laden glands, The branches drip a toxic dew Onto incendiary sands. But once a man dispatched a man With one dread glance to that dead waste And he obeyed. Away he ran And brought the poison back with haste: Its lethal sap, its waxen bough And desiccated leaves. The sweat Across his sallow, stricken brow Ran in a chilling rivulet. He brought it, stumbled and sprawled, prone Beneath the tent for his reward: A poor slave's d**h before the throne Of his invulnerable lord. And in that poison brew the Tsar Dipped arrows under his command, And loosed perdition near and far On men of every neighboring land.