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  • NOBLE POETRY  

  • TEAR-SECRETS

     

    Ask not of me how I do my true pearls' pleading entreaties for my dear ones, And how my evil days run like a deliberately restrained ghost. Instead of my beloved's redeeming lap, my cozy bunk-bed is still my only bedroll, my welcoming resting-place. If you ask my conscience, it may honestly and truthfully tell you that my crocodile-large tears, like palm-trees in my ripe coconut eyes, like all-seeing mirrors, show anything of themselves.

    Even now in my wounded soul the little child is hysterical, babbling, orphaned, like a little forest animal howling after its mother. And if my Enkidu body is forced to run away, or even to flee, and an Angel spreads its protective wings over my head - I can know that at least in these ever-widening, concentric circles, someone's little heart, growing buds, beats for me! - If you ask me how my lost, hopeless impulse Can make me spill my deaf and dumb in a shower of rain, And reveal my cowardly secrets thus silenced, I can only answer: Look you in the world of this tattered and wicked world, how the turncoats give their secrets according to their own interests.

    This is the parent of my silent, painful tears! And this silken bed of Procrustes is my only silent accomplice. On my hilly pillow I bow my head and curse all my sorrows. Call thou, good friend, the wounded child in me. And the rest of my mournful secrets, if he trust thee, He will share with thee and tell them away. - As a cold, cranky marmot, who hid in yellow gullets, It would be so good to find Someone to be his eternal companion. And no more deliberately forced fears, only a healthier and more optimistic doubt, a nobler humility of duty!

     

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