The Poet
I am a stranger in this world.
I am a stranger. Estrangement may be fraught with bitter loneliness and painful desolation, but it has made me think endlessly of a magic country, a country I do not know, and has filled my dream with the ghosts of a faraway land my eyes have never seen.
I am a stranger to my family and friends. I meet one of them; in my heart I say: Who is this? How have I come to know him? What law brings us together? Why am I seeking to be close to him, and why am I keeping him company?
I am a stranger to myself. I hear my tongue speak, but my ears find that voice strange. I may see my hidden self laughing, crying, defiant, frightened, and thus does my being become enamored of my being and thus my soul begs my soul for explanation. But I remain unknown, hidden, shrouded in fog, veiled in silence.
I am a stranger to my body. Every time I stand before the mirror, I see in my face what my soul cannot feel. I find in my eyes something which my depths do not contain.
I walk in the city's streets. The young men follow me shouting: " There goes the blind man; let us give him a stick to lean on. " I quickly run away. Then I meet a bevy of young women who clutch my garments saying: " This man is stone-deaf; let us fill his ears with love's music. " I flee. I come upon a group of middle-aged men who gather around me saying: " He is speechless as the grave; let us straighten the crookedness of his tongue. " I am too frightened to stay with them. I meet a group of old men who point their trembling fingers at me and say: " He is mad; he lost his wits in the pleasure gardens of ghouls and jinns. "
I am a stranger in this world.
I am a stranger. I have traversed this earth, both east and west, and never found my place of birth. Nor did I meet anyone who either knew me or had heard of me.
I wake up in the morning and I find myself inside a dark cave, serpents uncoiling from its ceiling, insects crawling along its sides. I go forth to face the light and my body's shadow follows me. As for my soul's shadows, they walk ahead to where I know not, searching for things I do not comprehend, clutching at what I do not feel I need. When evening comes I return. I recline upon my bed of ostrich down and thorns. Strange thoughts entice me, and I am swayed by strange inclinations — annoying, joyful, painful, delicious. At midnight the ghosts of bygone times and the souls of forgotten nations peer upon me through the cracks in the cave's wall. I stare at them and they at me; I talk and seek to understand, and smiling they answer. Then I try to catch them, but like smoke they melt into air.
I am a stranger in this world.
I am a stranger. There is not one man who grasps so much as one word of my soul's knowledge.
I walk in empty wastes. I see little streams flowing upward from the deep recesses of the valley to the mountain top. I see naked trees luxuriate in flower and fruit and scatter their leaves in one brief moment. Then their branches fall to the foot of the mountain and are transformed into quivering, spotted snakes. I see birds rise and swoop down, chirping, screeching, then stop, spread their wings, and change into naked women with long necks and loose hair, looking at me from behind eyelids kohled with love, smiling with honey-dipped red lips, stretching toward me white, tender arms perfumed with myrrh and frankincense. Then they shudder and disappear into fog, leaving behind in the vast expanse the echoes of their laughter and their mockery.
I am a stranger in this world.
I am a poet. I versify life's prose; I render in prose what life has versified. For this reason I am a stranger, and so I shall remain, until death snatches me away and carries me home.
I am a stranger. Estrangement may be fraught with bitter loneliness and painful desolation, but it has made me think endlessly of a magic country, a country I do not know, and has filled my dream with the ghosts of a faraway land my eyes have never seen.
I am a stranger to my family and friends. I meet one of them; in my heart I say: Who is this? How have I come to know him? What law brings us together? Why am I seeking to be close to him, and why am I keeping him company?
I am a stranger to myself. I hear my tongue speak, but my ears find that voice strange. I may see my hidden self laughing, crying, defiant, frightened, and thus does my being become enamored of my being and thus my soul begs my soul for explanation. But I remain unknown, hidden, shrouded in fog, veiled in silence.
I am a stranger to my body. Every time I stand before the mirror, I see in my face what my soul cannot feel. I find in my eyes something which my depths do not contain.
I walk in the city's streets. The young men follow me shouting: " There goes the blind man; let us give him a stick to lean on. " I quickly run away. Then I meet a bevy of young women who clutch my garments saying: " This man is stone-deaf; let us fill his ears with love's music. " I flee. I come upon a group of middle-aged men who gather around me saying: " He is speechless as the grave; let us straighten the crookedness of his tongue. " I am too frightened to stay with them. I meet a group of old men who point their trembling fingers at me and say: " He is mad; he lost his wits in the pleasure gardens of ghouls and jinns. "
I am a stranger in this world.
I am a stranger. I have traversed this earth, both east and west, and never found my place of birth. Nor did I meet anyone who either knew me or had heard of me.
I wake up in the morning and I find myself inside a dark cave, serpents uncoiling from its ceiling, insects crawling along its sides. I go forth to face the light and my body's shadow follows me. As for my soul's shadows, they walk ahead to where I know not, searching for things I do not comprehend, clutching at what I do not feel I need. When evening comes I return. I recline upon my bed of ostrich down and thorns. Strange thoughts entice me, and I am swayed by strange inclinations — annoying, joyful, painful, delicious. At midnight the ghosts of bygone times and the souls of forgotten nations peer upon me through the cracks in the cave's wall. I stare at them and they at me; I talk and seek to understand, and smiling they answer. Then I try to catch them, but like smoke they melt into air.
I am a stranger in this world.
I am a stranger. There is not one man who grasps so much as one word of my soul's knowledge.
I walk in empty wastes. I see little streams flowing upward from the deep recesses of the valley to the mountain top. I see naked trees luxuriate in flower and fruit and scatter their leaves in one brief moment. Then their branches fall to the foot of the mountain and are transformed into quivering, spotted snakes. I see birds rise and swoop down, chirping, screeching, then stop, spread their wings, and change into naked women with long necks and loose hair, looking at me from behind eyelids kohled with love, smiling with honey-dipped red lips, stretching toward me white, tender arms perfumed with myrrh and frankincense. Then they shudder and disappear into fog, leaving behind in the vast expanse the echoes of their laughter and their mockery.
I am a stranger in this world.
I am a poet. I versify life's prose; I render in prose what life has versified. For this reason I am a stranger, and so I shall remain, until death snatches me away and carries me home.
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