My work has become the making of tragic poems to denounce me for my failures, each one telling me of my selfishness and ungenerosity toward others, of my inability to unbend. I remain still, humble and ashamed in myself to have given my poems a share of my bitterness, now turned against me. I turn to my wife as she takes my hands, knowing how I suffer for being damned with my own deeds and she protests. Do I not realize I have a tree to sit under and the whispering of its leaves to listen to? They play about my head and at my feet and have a father to acknowledge them. |