If at times I say that flowers smile
And if I should say that rivers sing,
It’s not because I think there are smiles in flowers
And song in river’s running …
It’s because that way I make deluded men better sense
The truly real existence of flowers and rivers.
Because I write for them to read me I sacrifice myself at
To their stupidity of feeling …
I don’t agree with myself yet I forgive myself
Because I’m solely that serious thing—an interpreter of
Because there are men who don’t understand its language,
Being no language at all.