Classic Poem

Who among you has begun his days
seeking out the color of the dew and stones,
searching and searching
for themes that have neither been profaned
nor sung to satiety?

Whenever he felt
that the stallions he pursued were too elusive,
that the songs he tried to work were too abstruse,
he would cast his vexed eyes
over the flock of his days,
as one filed by behind the other,
every one the same.

This is the dusty song of papers.
Can you smell its blossoms
as it draws him to his room,
to the loved ones he has been neglecting,
and lists for him the number
of his dreams, his deserts, and his books?
He surveys his days
and his preoccupations,
gazes on his loved ones,
sincere and cast aside.
He counts his books: one, two, four.

Then he slips away,
restless and morose.
Of him they say he is, as usual, dazed,
as one well might be
who contemplates a stream to touch the taste of dew.
They say he is impervious
to offenses,
they say he is too quick to find offense.
They say he is dismal
elated
absent-minded
as one well might be
who is given to the contemplation of streams and crows.

He remembers his friends
and forgives them their taunts.
He laughs
and releases all his birds into the fog.