The Devil with the Three Golden Hairs

Since the grandmother had now torn out the three golden hairs and the three questions had been answered, she let the old snake rest peacefully and sleep until day-break. Thereupon the devil departed, and the old woman took the ant from the fold in her skirt and restored fortune's favourite to his human form.
1
This is how tired I am:
as tired as the fountain
in the square that becomes
a trickle: a mere gurgle
of its former self —
then is spent, silent.
The townspeople take jars
and pails away empty.
Flower-beds blend to brown.
The town itself begins
to wilt. Laments are heard.
2
This is how tired I am:
as tired as the tree that
grew apples of gold but
no longer blossoms. The last
lustreless globe falls.
Heroes on quests to win
kings' daughters jubilant
in their indifference,
go home, become clerks,
languish on linoleum
in twilight rooms.
3
This is how tired I am:
as tired as a ferryman
who must row between
river banks, linking
keen-eyed travellers with
whatever the further
shore offers — until
his back is crippled, his life
used up, and he is flotsam
beside a drifting boat.
4
I'll go down to the Underworld
and take counsel with the devil's
grandmother. He is the lout
who dreams my dreams before I do —
so that they squat on my chest
like succubi, drinking my deepest
strength. I will ask her to cradle
the devil's head in her arms and pluck
three golden hairs, as she probes
his mind for answers to my questions.
Armed with those answers, gold hairs,
I'll slip from my disguise as an ant
and hurry back to broad daylight.
5
There I'll set things to rights
with fountain and apple tree.
Pits will be dug to trap
the toad at the fountain-head,
the mouse supping on roots.
I'll tell the ferryman
how to swap fates with the king
who cheated me: by placing
the boat's pole in his hands
before reaching the shore —
then leaping to freedom!
6
The tarnished gold leaf of fatigue
clamped to the backs of my eyes
has peeled away, dissolved.
Fountain and apple tree shine.
I have inherited my kingdom,
and walk with my promised
bride through summer air.
The sun's warmth upon us,
crowning our heads, will ever
be sovereignty enough.