47
Often, I go back to my house along
a dark Old City street.
In a few puddles a few street-lamps’ light
is mirrored yellow, and the road is thronged.
Here among the folk who go and come
from the tavern home or to the whorehouse,
where goods and men constitute a great
seaport’s detritus,
I find, as I pass by, the infinite
in the humdrum.
Here prostitute and sailor, the old man
who’s cursing, the quarrelling harridan,
the cavalryman who’s seated
at the fried-food stall,
the turbulent young girl that unrequited
love has driven crazy,
have been created, all,
by life and misery;
the Lord stirs in them, as in me.
Here in this humble company I feel
my thought become
more purified the more the street is foul.