Strange how the soul knows
what it knows, when it knows-
These words are mine, and this proclivity;
this suits and that unnerves.
Avoid this, pursue that-
it's like a vast closet of hats;
And you won't wear just any:
it must be special- not one of many.
Fit perfectly on your head,
and just like your brain
Wants to be well fed,
(and occasionally entertained)
If you were a hat,
I'd wear you proudly
And never fret
or grieve too loudly,
I'd only take you off
to sleep,
And never toss you
on the heap.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem