The Poet

What do I know of the world?

I have seen mountains, but climbed few,

If any. I have climbed the mountain of suffering,

Little gestures have taken me out of the Valley of Death—

A kind word, a joke, a piece of advice.

I have offered these things to the world,

Feeble though they might have been.

I placed myself in Hell, and with humility,
I have turned to God. But one slip sends me tumbling

Down toward the abyss.

Small gestures have led me to God.

Small gestures have brought me back down.

Be wary of evil, trivial as it might seem.

I know no other language than the one I speak every day.

I have tried to learn languages—Spanish, for example.

And though I may have succeeded to a degree,

I fail again and again to remember what I learned.

I have been with people and made them laugh,

But for many years now, that talent has lain mostly dormant.

I have known many people, and gotten to know them well

But these days I feel like I don’t know anyone

And that no one knows me. 

I spend my money without care, heedlessly.

I earn nothing. I feel like an outcast in my own society.

Times have changed, and I haven’t.

I fear change. Everything about my life,

Most of all myself, feels so permanent.

But it’s not. I can change.

I may never climb the mountain in India,
I may never converse with the Spanish people in their own language.

But I can be with people and make them laugh.
I can climb the mountain of my suffering.

I can speak in a new language that is my own.

I can enjoy my life. I can be a poet.