I Am A Lover And Have Not

It Is Apparent That Nations Cannot Exist For Us. They Are The Playthings Of Children, Such Toys As Children Break From Boredom And Weariness. The Branch Of A Tree Is My Country. My Freedom Sleeps In A Mulberry Bush. My Country Is In The Shivering Legs Of A Little Lost Dog.

The Eighteen Years He Has Lived Seem But A Moment, A Breathing Space In The Long March Of Humanity. Already He Hears Death Calling. With All His Heart He Wants To Come Close To Some Other Human, Touch Someone With His Hands, Be Touched By The Hand Of Another.

The Fruition Of The Year Had Come And The Night Should Have Been Fine With A Moon In The Sky And The Crisp Sharp Promise Of Frost In The Air, But It Wasn't That Way. It Rained And Little Puddles Of Water Shone Under The Street Lamps On Main Street. In The Woods In The Darkness Beyond The Fair Ground Water Dripped From The Black Trees.

What Is To Be Got At To Make The Air Sweet, The Ground Good Under The Feet, Can Only Be Got At By Failure, Trial, Again And Again And Again Failure.

I Go About Looking At Horses And Cattle. They Eat Grass, Make Love, Work When They Have To, Bear Their Young. I Am Sick With Envy Of Them.