I’ve never been self-sufficient, I know.
Always in the air, hanging – like a fruit from
Its tree, like an arrow from a bended bow,
Like a word from its etymology.
That sense I had, when I dreamed what I would be
Before I came to earth, altered long ago
Into hope forgotten. Now, it wells in me,
Changing all order, makes me a witness, grows –
A chain of mystery deferred, living
Still, though different, always flowing on
And paying with interest the same old sins
That I shall bequeath unto you when I’m gone
For you to understand, and wisely invest them,
Unborn reader waiting like an unborn son …
