Friend, do not treat this book with disregard,
for it contains the pages that uplift
and then tear down the nations to be charred.
My fingers are inked over with this gift;
I have inscribed it deeply in my eyes.
Since then, all sights reflect in it and shift.
Since then, in animals' unworldly cries
or any natural, insensate noise,
I hear the echo of its lines arise.
The mountains and the rivers are its toys;
the palaces and pillars made by men
are shaped according to its upright poise.
Its characters and I have met at night.
Upon the road or in my bed we sparred,
and I have known their thoughts within the fight.
These words go unforgotten and unmarred
until the heart is calloused and grows hard.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
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