Don’t mind us, mountain and meadow
We are just passing through
The growing cold drives us
To reach the campsite before sundown
But Time pays no heed to urgency.
I asked the Girl with the Curly Hair,
“What are you thinking about?”
She answered—whispering—“I was thinking
I was thinking that—we don’t belong here.”
She’s right. We don’t belong here.
For the flowers were on a quest to find the bee
And only passed through our nostrils by accident
The sky pulled back the curtains
To perform an opera
That we did not pay to see.
“Beauty has smiled
But not to greet us
Her face was turned in our direction
But not to see us." 1
Oh! How familiar are the poets with
Her sweet, mocking mouth
And the Inaccessible Kiss
That comes from the puzzling East…
Kneeling, they bring petty offerings before
Lady Beauty, who ruffles her feathers
In horrible indifference to the beholder
(Time pays no heed to urgency)
How can we go back? Can we now return
To the comfort of half-realities?
To daydreams and photographs
To windshields and windows?
No. We have gone too deep into the wood now
Where Thought itself feels like an indecency
And we, who have the audacity to speak
Speak only in whispers.