For Ravi de Costa
In
my tradition, I begin
not
with a greeting
or
a welcome, but with
a
plunging into the heart
of
things. My true name,
which
circumstance leaves me
unable
to pronounce, means
The
Visitor Will Repeat.
In
this brief sojourn
through
life’s feast-hall
(flew
in from winter, only
to
vanish into same) we are
enmeshed
in the travail,
in
sorrows of hearth
and
harbour. But these,
of
course, soon pass.
A
long-dead storyteller
warned
me I was born
to
the struggle. The struggle
for
what? Books said the struggle:
your
fields will know no
reckoning,
no avowal, no
release. And yet, somehow,
good
will come of this.
No comments:
Post a Comment