I won't let myself
list my sorrows.
Almost old, I'm still youthful
and spry:
without
thorns
I cannot
crown
my heart
(which has worked so hard)
or my eyes
that have explored the land of sadness
and returned undimmed by grief
from those ships
and islands.

But I will tell you that,
at the time I was born,
mankind--I mean my friends--
loved
solitude, the most distant
air,
and the siren's watery wave.

I returned
from
archipelagos,
I returned from jasmine
and deserts
to simply being
simply being
simply being
with other beings,
and when I was no longer a shadow
and no longer on the run,
when I was fully human, I received the freight
of the human heart,
treacherous stones
of envy,
and common, fawning ingratitude.

"Sir, come back to us!" the sirens whisper
as they fade into the distance.
Their silvery
tails slap the spray
and slice
the transparent
sea
of memories.

Mother-of-pearl and ocean light
like twin fruits glistening
in the light of an intoxicating moon.

Ah, I close my eyes!

Heaven's whisper takes its leave.

I go to the door, to receive my thorns.