Locked in the comfort of his tragedy,
He grows into a self-chosen hero,
Lofty as a Hamlet of indecision,
Declaiming lines of noble agony.
He smiles upon the legend of his palm,
Triumphant o’er his wayward destiny,
And peers into the mirror mesmeric
To readjust the droop of pensive eyelids.
He wrings a moistured tribute from his woe,
Coddles his grief, coaxing another sigh.
His cheeks caress the texture of his tears,
His throat constricted pricks up to attention.
Spare him his melancholy, friends;
His grief is with him, he shall not want.
- - - - - - - - - - 1957
True to the title, the protagonist in the poem seems comfortable with his 'wayward destiny'. Wonderful imagery and freshness of language gives a feeling of satiation. Thanks for this never aging poem. A quote from the poem to prove my point: To readjust the droop of pensive eyelids / His cheeks caress the texture of his tears.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Even in the peak of youth you could surmise the changes... especially the privation and loneliness age bring! But the hero of the poem remains indomitable and resigns heroically to the vagaries of fate! A great write!