The Game of Poetry
Now I think—this is the game, poetry itself, pages filled with erasures and crossings-out. If you remember, you were like a metaphor, seeing everything as play, all the innocent chastity— and is all this to be called a game? I know what must be spoken, whether I go or not— I wonder if I shall return upon the same road. My mind floats, lying idle, thinking in a life too lazy to create anything new. All this is but mist, a sorcery of civilization, where the whole sky falls into darkness. When disaster enters life, a light glimmers for a moment, and silently the eyes behold— but then it sinks again beneath the quilt, in shelter. Yet when you awoke, I had not thought it was only a dream, only a game. Upon the soil of reality imagination was destroyed, and love became a harlot beneath the insult of lecherous eyes, beneath the smell of wine. You had thought this was still a virgin life. The day her menstruation ceased she knew the poem was finished, and a new story had be...