The wise man does not fear the world. That waist beyond death's portal. His dread is that he is alive, for to exist is lethal.

Not feigning that he grasps - how glib ! -
The madness of creation ,
H broods upon his mortal state,
His birth was betrayal.

The wise man in his might bows low
Before creation's wonder,
But in his weakness lifts a voice
Against extinctions power.

His way through woods day never lights
Will be enclosed by branches;
He will not give the sky his trust,
Will not walk with the masses.

No blessing for him in the church,
And in the cup no rapture;
No seat beside the orthodox
Or foolish unbeliever.

He does not plough, none plough for him,
But on the short-lived faring.
He makes his meditation food,
Creates bread from his dreaming.

This man who did not choose the world
Will turn away reluctant;
Because before decay and death
He sought, and found, a comrade.

The insubstantial wind it is
That shapes verse round his passage;
and the illusion that it weaves
will never fade or perish.