Suffering from the pain Of having almost everything, Which many others on This dark planet desire

You tell me you have Planned on taking your life. I could begin comforting you, Cruelly, by saying go right ahead,

All life carries within it The seed of death anyway, Which in this violent century often Bursts suddenly, a corolla of blood

From a stonewall or a field of mud. It is left for others, equally afflicted, To give labels: heroic, cowardly, Simple, brutal etc to such events.

I promise not to judge yours. But a good death demands A good life, which can be lived only In these changing, changeless days.

This is the infinity promised By all those true and false prophets: Early winter sun on the face, Ink, pen and paper for work

Few ripe apples in a wooden bowl, A glass of clear water, two cold hands Reaching across the table for you, So warm, teeming with cardinals That trill and trill, sending shivers Up my arms, into my meager heart!

A Canada geese is resting Its oval head on one of the wings As if floats on a lake of late Afternoon light.

Beyond this calm, a blue jay Is shrieking in the tall maples, Which sway in the wind and shake Gold tailings

Over the gracefully flowing path. Sound and repose frame the amplitude Of time as light changes over The manor walls.

Stone glows with a fire It doesn’t own. I too am A singing stone as bells begin To toll

The first hour of night.

The devil, which prevents Me from naming and praising That which inflames my senses:

Wet ground covered with oak Leaves steaming in the sun, The constellation of women

Around whom a joyful chorus Of violins rises, also gules my voice To my mind and thus denies

Shouts of direct exultation. Instead I burrow in these powerless Forms, a refuge for the multiply

Exiled, man from country, voice From language, thought from The written word. Questions on

The wall: who am I? What do I want to say? And how to name it?