as a child he never plucked the wings off flies
he didn't tie tin cans to cats' tails
or lock beetles in matchboxes
or stomp anthills
You waste the attention of your eyes,
the glittering labour of your hands,
and knead the dough enough for dozens of loaves
of which you'll taste not a morsel;
The hair falling on your forehead
Suddenly something stirred on the ground.
The trees are whispering
I carved your name on my watchband
with my fingernail.
Where I am, you know,
Living is no laughing matter:
you must live with great seriousness
it's 1962 March 28th
I'm sitting by the window on the Prague-Berlin train
night is falling
I never knew I liked
My one and only!
Your last letter says:
I stand in the advancing light,
my hands hungry, the world beautiful.
My eyes can't get enough of the trees--
Taut, thick fingers punch
the teeth of my typewriter.
Three words are down on paper
The knight of immortal youth
at the age of fifty found his mind in his heart
and on July morning went out to capture
the right, the beautiful, the just.