I

... And tomorrow, when they boast of that one and that other, it is of this one that we shall boast ...

The night asks who I am
I am its secret — restless, deep, and black
I am its rebellious silence
I have masked my essence with stillness
And wrapped my heart in surmises
And stayed here, lost in thought,
Gazing, while the centuries ask me
Who am I?

And the wind asks who I am
I am its bewildered spirit, disowned by time
I am, like it, in no place
We go on moving, and there is no end
We go on passing, and there is no abiding
And when we reach the bend
We think it the close of misery —
And then: open space!

And time asks who I am
Like it, I am a giantess, folding up ages
And returning to grant them resurrection
I create the distant past
From the charm of easeful hope
And I return and bury it myself
To fashion for myself a new yesterday
Whose tomorrow is ice.

*

And the self asks who I am
Like it, I am bewildered, staring into darkness
Nothing grants me peace
I go on asking, and the answer
Will remain hooded by a mirage
And still I think it has drawn near
But when I reach it, it has melted,
Died down, and gone.