A Time To Retreat

A fellow gets restless, walking along the shore, The mystery is of his making, pondering questions that the formless, transient ocean, all the weathering winds, the heaving land, can never answer. There is drama that may never be denied, the mystery that took you out here, parted from your friends, sealing your solitude as surely as the creeping storm makes that dark cave ahead, your refuge. All those questions will suffice as monsters very well. The one criterion is truth, without the hope of gaining it. The Gandhis, Kings, the Hammerskolds, were lovers, that is all I know. It is enough. Although a life has ways of sneaking up and bumping you-- you feel like asking for forgiveness just for walking on the sidewalk. Then the task of song is ruled out, as one more sop to youth and vanity. I will grasp this age, abrade it, tender it to those young rulers as a bleeding badge, not of mutilation, but of practiced sins they might avoid, yet I don't think they will. There now, Mr. Eliot steps in, Prufrock by his side, poetic maggots racing from the light, and wisdom doesn't have a chance. It is the dance of clowns that we perform, Pagliacci is our patron and the comedy, thanks be to God, winds down with soft, sweet blows of harmony and grace.