Still

Still I wonder how it is to be a stream,

From a dark well constant flowing,

Winding seawards over ancient mossy wheels

Yet feel no need of knowing?

Still I wonder how it is to be a tree,

Circled servant to the seasons,

Only drink on sky and rake the winter wind

And need no seal of reasons?

Still I wonder why I wonder why I'm here

All my words just the shaft of my flail

As I race o'er this beautiful sphere

Like a dog who his chasing his . . .

Tailors and tinkers, princes and Incas,

Sailors and sinkers, before me and like me . . .

Still I wonder how it is to be a bird,

Singing each dawns sweet effusions;

Flying far away when all the world has stirred

Yet seek no vain conclusions . . . . . .

Still I wonder if I passed some time ago

As a bird, or a stream, or a tree?

To mount up high you first must sink down low

Like the changeable tides of the

Caesars and Pharoahs, prophets and heroes,

Poets and hobos, before me and after me all the

Painters and dancers, mountainside chancers,

Merchants and gamblers, bankers and ramblers,

Winners and losers, angels and boozers,

Beatles and Bolans, raindrops and oceans,

Kings, pawns and deacons, fainthearts and beacons,

Caesars and Pharoahs, prophets and heroes,

Poets and hobos, before me and after me...