What is the strangest way to speak the Truth? Or be there a straightforward path? But then wherefore the winding snake, The fish-white dunes that undulate Beneath the argent talon of the moon? The music, like a net of stars, that’s cast Around the huge behemoth dark, That its foreleg and lock may be defined In yellow white and azure black? What do the poets have for trade If through the trickle-walk of prose all can be said? Hermes and Gödel are fast-friends. To what, comrades, and to what end? But I have read a poem out of Japan Called The Delights of Solitude; Here are a paucity of lines therefrom:
Really lovely. Thank you.