The time was very long until
I had the chance to work my will;
Once seen, the way was clear as light,
A father’s patience infinite.
He always was so sensitive;
But soon I taught him how to live
With each day, just a patch of white,
A blinded patch of black, each night.
Each day he watched my gaiety.
It’s very difficult to die
When one is young.... I pitied him,
The glass I filled up to the brim,
His shaking fingers scarce could hold;
His limbs were trembling as with cold....
I waited till from night and day
All meaning I had wiped away,
And then I gave it him again;
The wine made heaven in his brain.
Then spider-like, the kindly wine
Thrust tentacles through every vein,
And knotted him so very fast
I knew I had him safe at last.
And sometimes in the dawn, I’d creep
To watch him as he lay asleep,
And each time, see my son’s face grown
In some blurred line, more like my own.
A crumpled rag, he lies all night
Until the first white smear of light;
And sleep is but an empty hole ...
No place for him to hide his soul,
No outlet there to set him free:
He never can escape from me.
Yet still I never know what thought,
All fly-like, in his mind lies caught:
His face seems some half-spoken word
Forgot again as soon as heard,
Beneath the livid skin of light;
Oh, just an empty space of white,
Now all the meaning’s gone. I’ll sit
A little while, and stare at it.