from Book of Longing
I had the title "poet" and maybe I was one for a while.
Also, the title "singer" was kindly accorded me even though I could barely carry a tune.
For may years, I was known as a "monk".
I shaved my head and wore robes and got up very early.
I hated every one but I acted generously and no one found me out.
My reputation as a "ladies' man" was a joke.
It caused me to laugh bitterly through the ten thousand nights I spent alone.
From a third story window above the Park de Portugal,
I've watched the snow come down all day.
As usual, there's no one here. There never is.
Mercifully, the inner conversation is canceled by the white noise of winter.
I am neither the mind, the intellect nor the silent voice within.
That's also canceled.
And now Gentle Reader, in what name, in whose name do you come to idle with me in these luxurious and dwindling realms of aimless privacy?
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