I am lonely, and lonely, as a feeling,
seems to mean so much to me,
so long as it is pleasing.

I am lonely, as lonely as a friend,
who has lost his way among the meadows
where playmates were just a moment ago.

I am lonely, as one surrounded by dusk,
where all the little trees and things
now seem drear and blue.

How small an insect may appear
to a lump as large as me.
What if the whole world was an insect?
Would be I as small as me?

Then, would my life glide so fast
as a tiny ember's leap?
For things too small to grasp in hand
seem to me replete.

The most important thing to practice
when changing oneself
is simply, calmly, and kindly
starting again.

For all the things to dress up as,
one is prettiest when doomed,
let tragedy beautify,
and caution follow soon.

All my action to today
was to be looked at, how insane.
Like living all one's life at hame,
the soul gets tried, the soul's a slave.

The weaning oner is sad to see,
like an old friend, leaves it be:
all the world of soulful toil,
all the riches of simple soil.

How complicated it be to beg,
from door to door, for subsistence:
to become a dog of shame,
following in friendship's wake.

What if belief was vanity?
I would not write a word,
for if I knew a thing or two,
my meaning would be useless.

And if I write, I am vain...
vainglorious, for example;
but, yet, the courage to dress up,
starts in children everywhere.

Children are not holy,
and to that I bring the blame,
grind me up in the mill, I dare ye!
To which I can taste the sane.

The rivers start in mountains
and travel under roads
until they come to holding places
between here and the sun.

The sun starts way before us,
before then I don't know,
but travels onward after us,
to places as of yet unknown.

The places seem to move to me,
but to me place is here.
Places really don't make sense,
and to that I drink a beer.