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X. Poetry

While my heart worships its muse once again

a mud-island rises from a deeply troubled lake…

Past, present, or future? It’s all one in the end;

I live in my own time, denying everything.

What is poetry without being? Material!

And being without poetry – material unformed.

Like one touched by the seven fingers of hell;

his faith is lost, it never does return.

I heard the silent word, with eyes enflamed,

and like reality, it did strike my fancy:

that the Lord is mighty, and I think defenseless,

rather only my rotten soul is endless.

And in my adult gene-helix lives the child,

the Body and Soul Universe of Poetry.