“So who, I ask you, would want
to seek out and leaf through so many
volumes and then extract so little?”
Boccaccio, Pagan Gods, Preface I
Many extract little
by extracting much
of what love may say
from behind the cover,
leafing and loafing
through a book of life
and forgetting
that neither in this
nor in music, in that
geometry of the sound,
nothing that is is random,
not even errors or kismet.
But no one can see
or attain the elixir,
destiny’s belle letters,
who, enslaved, spends
one’s life in putting down
and away the soul and ever
trying to kill the God inside
so that the good is vain
and so is love and life
and what is left—whether
little or much becomes
a Hell or many Hells of lies
where the Muck of the Ugly reigns
just as, in the East, they found
the Dao—while the rest keep
drowning in the chosen dung.
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