Unsuitable for song as well as sense the island flowers into slums and skyscrapers, reflecting precisely the growth of my mind. I am here to find my way in it. Sometimes I cry for help But mostly keep my own counsel. I hear distorted echoes Of my own ambigious voice and of dragons claiming to be human. Bright and tempting breezes Flow across the island, Separating past from the future; Then the air is still again As I sleep the fragrance of ignorance. How delight the soul with absolute sense of salvation, how hold to a single willed direction? I cannot leave the island, I was born here and belong. Even now a host of miracles hurries me a daily business, minding the ways of the island as a good native should, taking calm and clamour in my stride. Island, Nissim Ezekiel
Posted on: Sat, 31 May 2014 15:03:35 +0000
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