The Poet Is An Untier

You Shall Create Beauty Not To Excite The Senses But To Give Sustenance To The Soul.

I Have All That I Lost And I Go Carrying My Childhood Like A Favorite Flower That Perfumes My Hand.

Let The Radiance Of My Enthusiasms Envelop The Poor Courtyard And The Bare Classroom. Let My Heart Be A Stronger Column And My Goodwill Purer Gold Than The Columns And Gold Of Rich Schools.

I Write Poetry Because I Can’t Disobey The Impulse; It Would Be Like Blocking A Spring That Surges Up In My Throat. For A Long Time I’ve Been The Servant Of The Song That Comes, That Appears And Can’t Be Buried Away. How To Seal Myself Up Now?…it No Longer Matters To Me Who Receives What I Submit. What I Carry Out Is, In That Respect, Greater And Deeper Than I, I Am Merely The Channel.

In The Secret Of Night, My Prayer Climbs Like The Liana, My Prayer Is, And I Am Not. It Grows, And I Perish. I Have Only My Hard Breath, My Reason And My Madness. I Cling To The Vine Of My Prayer. I Tend It At The Root Of The Stalk Of Night.