XII. In the pull of antagonisms
I’m young, my life has been but fancy,
what a hated peasant, alien and stray,
a flung-out frozen splotch of standing snow.
The Hungarian gets sloshed and my thoughts
bode ill – worries churn – being and transience –
I’d drink, though my worker-self won’t allow good wine –
swill-blinded, I stomached it, and it was fine.
Thus I barely lived, knowing this country’s a carcass-well
– imbalance is the Hungarian pain-foible
behind which, the deeply-rubbed spine of truth –
I don’t know who pushed on what – new will,
duties - then misery, self-knowledge, zeal –
whatever – my soul-pair wants to while away –
and I wait for night-darkness, somewhere among oaks.