Friday, November 5, 2010
Who am I to be humble to
But everything I stand beneath,
The whistling of the summer grass,
The painless music of the brook,
A child at play without lament,
Solidity of dry cement,
The pennies I in secret took,
From someone else's bubble glass,
The heather from atop the heath
That glistens in the dew?
What could it be that humbles me
That does not humble you?
Pachydermis does not bow
Or give partition to the Lord -
Though memory persistent be
It does not iron out the will
That gazes to the barren hill,
Dismissing imagery of me -
The sad ecclesiastic horde
All aching for the burning now.
What is it that I fail to see
From underneath my brow?
The firmest foot must likewise fail
To apprehend the Heirophant
Who holding wisdom miserly
Next to its breast - the crystal key
For no one but its element.
And thus the key becomes the nail
To pin me to the living tree
And listen to me wail.
To not be God or Lord to plan -
This is my certain strategy
For I should choose to nothing be
To nothing know, for nothing stand
To quiet the cacophony
As very best I can.
You will not find me on my knee
Nor standing over anyone
Firm underneath tranquility,
Firm overtop the Sun.
There never was as such is me
But should I fall unto my knee
I'll be the only fool allowed
To break the silence of the Moon
And fade into the One.
- Yukio Shin-Tokorazawa, circa 1977, Tokyo, Japan
Translated by Gilby London, circa RFN (Right Fucking Now)