For many years he listens to me
As the trees will listen to the seasons.
In my wake, he wades against the flow,
Getting to the source.
Yes, but the truth is, he never lets up,
Even wrecks my siesta,
Dictating through my tired mouth the most confusing gibberish,
Though he’s forever mindful, as if holding back.
One day, when I’m getting on in years,
Flashing like some diamond, he bursts in on me,
Spins me out of my turban,
Throws my ink and papers in my face
And takes off for his rendezvous with fate.
Ever since, people console me.
And it’s my wont to indulge them,
Though without any conviction;
For even now, indeed ever since
He brought about the destruction of my perch,
I see in his departing prints
A path for wisdom beyond my commendable inkpot.