An incompetent coward am I.
But I know how to make
the lilies lift their ear trumpets
to hearken
my soft thread.
Wretched am I.
Yet I know
how to raise up
from the urns the nocturnes
of the mournful ashes.
At my song
serpents and doves come together
to quench their thirst
from the same water trough.
My folly
is like the madness
of eternal youth.
Watch me in tunic with cord
dancing barefoot
the idiot dance
of Francis.
Look at my wonderstruck eyes:
God’s harlequin.