I shall sing the song of man,
Because I am one, and have ceased to be one
I shall live the life of man,
Because I am one, and have ceased to be one
That man by nature is not evil,
But evil by nature is man.
In stillness I journeyed, far-off
So distant that my return
To my crying sibling and nagging neighours subjected.
I went without my mind but memory,
My eyes closed, and that with which I saw
I do not know–
My legs behind, and that with which I ran
I do not know–
I went without my lips, yet….
Infant I went without me.
As I journeyed, I met some men
That chased after me, their intents
I do not know–
And so is why I ran
And yet while I run
From these unyielding men,
I came across a man that clung firmly to a book;
Like an epiphyte writhes a tree.
I saw its caption, but how I left it behind
I do not know–
He had authored this book
In his wildness, he crafted its words
And the truth therein he painted in his drunkenness.
And yet while I run,
From the men whom I have swarm through a river of
Dual deepness to avoid;
And pushed through blind bushes to escape from–
My running colleague had waited
Sitting by a riverbank,
Whether to be caught or not
I do not know–
And if eventually caught,
I do not know either–
In the midst of my running and looking at this man,
Alas! I was caught by another.
Whether this man–this man that caught me,
Was of the men that chased after me
I do not know–
And why He caught me, whether for these men
Or from them, then
I do not know–
I struggled with Him for freedom;
I escaped and was caught, escaped and caught….
And thus the sequence grows
Until suddenly, the man with book died,
My attention was caught and so was of
The man that caught me.
How he died and why
I do not know–
And why that book stole greater part of my keenness
I do not know either–
This man in his life, lived and walked alone
And in his death, such a mass of crowd accrued.
For death draws a crowd
As any creed will draw a followership.
Why death, and seldom life, draws a crowd is a
Question for the wise
But puzzle to the wuss.
In the midst of all these,
As men sing biographies and curse or praise death;
A being stole this book.
Whether this being–the being that stole the book
Was a man or not,
I do not know–
And why he stole the book,
I do not know either–
That man, the man that caught me, chased.
His speed I could not describe,
For He moved like a Slug
But His paces were Cheetah's.
He caught up with him and commanded its return
The being complied as though his only
Strength was his swiftness.
He brought it and with a sigh said:
‘This man had written what he should have lived
And had lived what he did not write'.
I spoke within myself and that with which I spoke
I do not know–
‘The very being of man by Maker's nature is not evil
But evil by nature has corrupted man'.
As I leave to return to where I left myself
The man that caught me whispered to my ears;
‘Write not such a book
But right yourself by The Book.
For if in life you barely breathe
Will you in death court a chance?'