But I did not see the sign
of what was to come until
I was blind as Samson. With
one stroke, I lost all desire,
hope, strength—for who needs his sight
when cold age pokes the heart's fire
with only a broken stick?
Now at my feet a dog whines
even in slumber; he sniffs
another's bone as he shifts
in his own darkness, hungry
for gain that requires no fight,
and in his dreams grows angry
at dream's inconsequent wish.
How can I reproach him, I
who am shepherd and watchman,
and as ignorant and dumb?
Both of us strain at a gnat
and swallow camels, the spite
of those who may look at
but not touch the other's ration.
Yet I make no mourn or cry
I have no tears to defend.
By now my shoes understand
how to find the door, the latch
and go without any fright
of stumbling up crooked paths
since all paths lead to the one.
Yes, yes, the words of the wise,
but I do not eat their bread
or cover my lips to swear
by the debts of the guilty,
for I can not see the light
that moves men to take pity
and neither can I forget.
When harvest is past, the ties
with summer are ended.
Even the flies know better
than to sit at a table
where vinegar and gall blight
the sense—their comfort, the chill
presaging winter's opiate.
I ask, who can see God's eye?
Then let him be sure to scour
both inside his cup and out,
for though the temple is lit
like gold and the altar white,
the heart of the hypocrite
shall betray his hands and mouth.
I sleep the sleep of death, ai!
An old man, I have no rod,
no plague to command, no cloud
to conceal my nakedness—
nothing but a toothless bite
as I wander in silence,
a harmless ghost walked by his dog.