And so it begins again . . .
The House of Songs
and the day that never came
Afraid even to speak,
much was shown to me – not by others, but in the things
black moods and coldness
and good heavens!
Hamewith (I)
Strange it is: words out of my mouth
And strange it is: I never spoke them
I could have saved us all
I could say to no one:
“Have I not told you that one
should withdraw silent and shamed?”
I could have run crying to the house of my soul
I could have hammered upon its door
I could have broken it down with my naked hands
I could have cried out there an unceasing word, two words
The bravest and gentlest knowledge
I could have cried out in the strangest English
I might have saved us
I might have saved us all
Have mercy upon me
I withdrew because of the power that you loved
that was no power at all
Strange it is to come to this house that one loved
that held the peace that was no peace at all
Hamewith (II)
I write it all down here, the story of our destruction
hiding from all men his secret knowledge of himself.
And if I write it down maybe they may know that I was two men.
I was always two men.
And if I write it with fear, being myself destroyed,
maybe it will cease to trouble my mind.
There were troubling things that none of us knew or understood,
things one could not know by always reading newspapers.
From the day he was born, the One had fathered a strange son
who had been one or the other.
This one struggled with himself in darkness and alone.
The other was the dark and silent man who had all the gentleness of
strange and unusual thoughts in his mind that he would bring into the
house and hold them as though there were some deep meaning in them.
One could not know if he were proud or pleased or angry
for the truth could outride and outshoot them all
and then call all his friends to some other place.
I should have spoken for the secret knowledge came to me
and was destroyed with him.
I did not observe all these events because there is no such magic
because I am apart, disfigured, because in my heart
I am living apart and watching the unnoticed things:
a pulse that beats,
a glance that moves so it may rest at some other place.
The strange authority, the lonely and terrible word, that is buried deep
and never spoken – I do not dare to claim a knowledge of this voice.
But being myself destroyed as the world sees it, all of these things
I will write down in his secret book – I will put aside my fears and be obedient.
The secret book
the one or the other
{ } VK Arkiv 