Let me communicate again in the idiom of man--
my conceit has suddenly tired me out.
I lay
forlornly in the water, the water browned off by rust
in the
Astolat's pipes, the waters of life, but not much left.
Sadness encompassed me.
The sadness of little children dying by merely growing
up
of mature men turning childish again
of American trees
of the disinherited
the stood-up
the disappointed
the deserted
the uncomprehended
of the walking wounded
I hate to see
that evening sun go down
The love songs of the world are sad.
The old English ballads quaintly drone--murder and rue.
Gypsy violins have wet the eyes of European centuries.
Italians shake their opera houses with love's grief.
Don Juan dies young--and Romeo grows old.
The Hindu on his fetid riverbank throbs to the guillotine moon.
The damsel in Xanadu may be different--it doesn't go on to say.