Haughty, Detached

My shoulders square, back straight,
and I stride through the world,
haughty, detached,
separate from all the other people except that we share the same grass, the same air;
The wind blows in my hair and makes a game of bouncing it,
and my eyes are weary and fond of all they see.
I do not speak aloud;
neither do I eat, except to sustain my body when I feel it grow faint—my head whirls and aches—
because I have no desire to eat, to speak, to sleep or to write;
All I know is warm wind, warm earth, and to avoid disturbances—I mean people—
My mouth has a sweet, tired ache, and my fingers have a sweet, tired ache, and my soul, my soul is weary and fond.
The thousand tunes that I bring forth (with my fife, with my fingers) use up more of my breath than I have to spare
(I faint, but I do not hunger),
and my love is a story,
and my beloved is a character in a story—a Ganymede, a Patroclus—
and since neither of us is real, and since I have no desires,
I obey fondly and wearily the worn path, and I do not stumble; neither do I run,
and I stride through the world, detached.