The Collected

Poems of

Alberto Caeiro

The Pessoa Series from Shearsman Books:

Selected English Poems

Mensagem / Message (bilingualedition;translatedbyJonathanGriffin) (co-publicationwithMenardPress)

The Poems of Álvaro de Campos Vol. 1 (translatedbyChrisDaniels)The Poems of Álvaro de Campos Vol. 2 (translatedbyChrisDaniels)

Lisbon: What the Tourist Should See

ZbigniewKotowicz: Fernando Pessoa – Voices of a Nomadic Soul

Fer nando Pessoa

The Collected Poems ofAlberto Caeiro

translated byChris Daniels

ShearsmanBooksExeter

FirstpublishedinintheUnitedKingdomin2007byShearsmanBooksLtd58VelwellRoadExeterEX44LD

www.shearsman.com

ISBN-13 978-1-905700-24-0

ISBN-10 1-905700-24-5

Translationcopyright©ChrisDaniels,2007.

The right of Chris Daniels to be identified as the translator of this workhas been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs andPatentsActof 1988.Allrightsreserved.Nopartof thispublicationmaybereproduced,storedinaretrievalsystem,transmittedinanyformorbyanymeans,electronic,mechanical,photocopying,recordingorotherwise,withoutthepriorpermissionof thepublisher.

Acknowledgements:Earlierversionsof someof thesetranslationshaveappearedinjournals.I’mgratefultotheeditorsof Antenym (SteveCarll),Five Fingers Review ( JohnHighandThoreauLovell),Prosodia, -Vert (AndrewFelsinger),Fascicle (TonyTost)andespeciallyRobertoHarrisonandAndrewLevyof Crayonfortheirsupportandfriendshipovertheyears.

ThepublishergratefullyacknowledgesfinancialassistancefromArtsCouncilEngland.

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Contents

General Introduction byRicardoReis 7

A. Caeiro byananonymousauthor 9

[On Alberto Caeiro] byThomasCrosse 11

Poems

The Keeper of Flocks IntroductionbyRicardoReis 13 Poems 15

The Amorous Shepherd IntroductionbyRicardoReis 73 Poems 74

Detached Poems 83

The Penultimate Poem 153The Last Poem 154

Variant Poems 155

Interview with Caeiro 159Letter from Álvaro de Campos 161

Notes for the Recollection of My Master Caeiro 164 byÁlvarodeCampos

Fragments, Perhaps Intended for‘Notes for the Recollection of My Master Caeiro’ 186

Beyond Another Ocean 189 byC.Pacheco

Translator’sNotes 197

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General Introduction

AlbertoCaeirodaSilvawasborninLisboaonApril[...],1889,anddiedof tuberculosisinthesamecityon[...],1915.HespentallbuthisfirsttwoyearslivinginagrangeintheRibatejoandonlyreturnedtothecityof hisbirthinhisfinalmonths.IntheRibatejohewrotenearlyallhispoems,thoseof thebookentitledKeeper of Flocks,thoseof theincompletebook,The Amorous Shepherd,andsomeof hisfirstpoemswhichImyself,havinginherited them for the purposes of publication with the rest, gatheredtogetherunderthedesignationgraciouslysuggestedbyÁlvarodeCampos:Detached Poems.Hisfinalpoems,beginningwiththeonenumbered[...],werewritteninthefinalperiodof theauthor’slife,afterhehadreturnedto Lisbon. The task befalls me briefly to establish a distinction. Someof thesepoemsreveal,byreasonof theperturbationcausedby illness,somethingnewand rather foreign— innatureanddirection—to thegeneralcharacterof hiswork. Caeiro’slifecannotbenarrated:thereisnothinginittobetold.Hispoemswerethelifewithinhim.Inallelsetherewasneitherincidentnorstory.Eventhebrief,fruitless,andabsurdepisodewhichgaverisetothepoemsof The Amorous Shepherdwasnotanincidentbutrather,sotospeak,aforgetting. Caeiro’s work represents the absolute essence of paganism, fullyreconstructed.TheGreeksand theRomans,who lived in themidstof paganismandthereforedidnotthinkaboutit,wouldhavebeenincapableof suchathing.YetCaeiro’soeuvreanditspaganismwereneverthoughtthrough,norweretheyevenfelt.Theycamefromsomethingwithinusdeeperthanfeelingorreason.Tosayanymorewouldbetoexplain,whichservesnoend;toaffirmanylesswouldbetolie.Everyworkspeaksforitself withitsownvoiceinthelanguagethatshapesbothworkandvoice.“If youhavetoask,youwillneverknow.”There isnothingtoexplain.Imagineattemptingtoexplaintosomeonealanguagehedidnotspeak. Ignorant of life and nearly so of letters, practically withoutcompanionshiporculture,Caeirocreatedhisworkthroughadeepandimperceptibleprogress,likethatwhichdrivesthelogicaldevelopmentof civilizations through unconscious humanity’s conscious mind. His wasa progress of sensation, of ways of feeling, and an intimate evolutionof thought derived from these progressive sensations. Through somesuperhuman intuition, as one founding a religion (yet the mantle of “religious” does not suit him — witness his repudiation of all religionandmetaphysics),thismandescribedtheworldwithoutthinkingaboutit,andcreatedaconceptof theuniverse—aconceptthoroughlyresistanttoexegesis.

8

When first confronted with the enterprise of publishing thesepoems, I thought I would write a long and discursive critical study of Caeiro’swork,itsnatureandnaturaldestiny.ButIfoundIcouldmakenosatisfactorystudy. Itweighsheavilyuponme,butreasonhascompelledmetoprefacetheworkof myMasterwithafew,nullwords.BeyondwhatIhavealreadywritten,Icanwritenothingelseusefulornecessary,thathadnotbeenheartfullysaidinOde[...]of BookIof myworks,whereIweepforthemanwhowasforme(ashewillcometobeforagreatmanyothers)theunveilerof Reality,or,ashehimself said,“theArgonautof truesensations”—thegreatLiberator,hewhorestoresus,singing,totheluminousnothingthatweare;whodrawsusawayfromdeathandfromlife,andleavesusamongsimplethingswhich,whiletheylast,areignorantof lifeanddeath;whofreesusfromhopeanddespair,sothatwemightneitherseekgroundlessconsolationnorfindpointlesssadness;sothatwemightliveunthinkingalongsidehim,fellowguestsof theobjectivenecessityof theUniverse. I give you his work, whose editing was entrusted to me by theineluctablehazardof theworld.Igiveittoyou,andIsay:

Orejoice,allyouweeping InHistory,ourworstdisease! GreatPanisreborn!

Ricardo Reis

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A. Caeiro

In placing before the English-reading public my translations of thesepoems, Ido sowith the full confidence that I ammakinga revelation.Iclaim,inallconfidence,thatIamputtingbeforeEnglishmenthemostoriginalpoetrythatouryoungcenturyhasasyetproduced—apoetrysofresh, so new, untainted to such a degree by any kind of conventionalattitude,thatthewordsaPortuguesefriendsaidtome,whenspeakingof theseverypoems,aremorethanjustified.“EverytimeIreadthem,”hesaid,“Icannotbringmyself tobelievethattheyhavebeenwritten.Itissoimpossibleanachievement...!”Andsomuchmoreimpossible,thatisof thesimplest,mostnaturalandmostspontaneouskind.

II

AlbertoCaeiro—thatisnothiswholename,for2namesaresuppressed—wasborninLisboninAugust1887.HediedinLisboninJuneof thepastyear.

...

The Keeper of Sheep remainsoneof thehighestworksof alltime,hard-bounduponasenseof natureorspirit,sospontaneous,sofreshandsonaturalthatitisastonishingthatanyoneshouldhavehadit.

...

The Keeper of Sheepisbothaseriesof solitary[?]poemsandaphilosophical[...]; hence its strength, its unity and its power. The later poems, evenallowingforthefactthattheyaremerefragments,areweakeveninform,incomparisonwiththatgreatachievement.Exceptionmustbemadeforthetwolovepoems.Butthereafterhistonesuffers.Itdoesnotbecomegarrulousor,properlyspeaking,weak.Butitlosesitsintellectualkeenness,itbecomesuncertain,evententative.Eachthingmusthavecosthimefforttowrite,andheseemstohavebeentiredof thingstowriteit.

***

Caeirohascreated(1)anewsentimentof nature(2)anewmysticism(3)anewsimplicity,whichisnetherasimplicityof faith,norasimplicityof

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sadness(asin[...]’scase),norasimplicityof abdicationfromthingsand().Muchashelikestoprovehisirrationalism,heisathinkerandaverygreatthinker.Nothingissoennoblingasthisfaiththatdeclaresthesensessuperiortotheintellect,thatspeaksof intellectasadisease.

Hehascontradictionsveryslight,butheisconsciousof allof theseandhas forewarned his critics. His contradictions are of 3 kinds: (1) in histhought,(2)inhisfeeling,(3)inhispoeticalmanner.

...

But the most astonishing circumstance is that C possesses in anextraordinary degree that metaphysical subtlety which is generally,if not universally, considered as associated with spiritualistic andtranscendentalistdoctrines.

Thispureandabsolutematerialist,whoadmitsnorealityoutsidethingsashe feels them,writes,quite inaccordancewithhis theoryof things,[...]

Thereissomethingnotlessthanscholasticand[...]intheexteriorsubtletyof hismetaphysics.Yetnoonecanignorethatitisnaturalfrombeginningtoend.

Astheastonishingfinalverseof the()poem

Thingsaretheonlyoccultmeaningof thingsTheonlyoccultmeaningof thingsisthethingsthemselves.

Averseof which it isnot toomuchtosay that itopensnewroads forphilosophicalmeditation.

Caeiroistheonlypoetof nature.Inasense,heisNature:heisNaturespeakingandbeingvocal.

Hehasneitherinterestinmankind,norinanyhumanactivity,noteveninart.Allthesethingsaretohimunnatural.

OnlyNatureisdivineanditisnotdivine.

(unsigned)

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[On Alberto Caeiro]

ButCaeirodisplacesallourmentalhabitsandputsallournotionsoutof drowsing.

Hedoesit,firstof all,bythephilosophywhichcanhardlybesaidtobesimply“atthebottom”of hispoetry,becauseitisbothatthebottomandatthetopof it.Whateveramysticmaybe,heiscertainlyakindof mystic.Butheis,notonlyamaterialisticmystic,whichisalreadystrangeenough,butstillcanbeimagined,forthereissomesortof modernprecedentinSwiftandof anancientoneinsomepoets,butanon-subjectivistmystic,which is quite unworldly. [...] but it is so difficult to discover a recent“modern”beingprecisely likeaprimitiveGreek, thatwearenotat allaidedbytheveryanalogythatdoesatfirstseemtohelpus.

Caeiro puts us out, next, by the secondary aspects of his philosophy.Being a poet of what may be called “the absolute Concrete” he neverlooksonthatconcreteotherwisethanabstractly.Nomanismoresureof theabsolute,non-subjectiverealityof atree,of astone,of aflower.Hereitmightbe thought thathewouldparticularize, thathewouldsay“anoak,”“asacredstone,”“amarigold.”Buthedoesnot:hekeepsonsaying“atree,”“astone,”“aflower.”

Alltheseobservationswillbebetterunderstoodafterreadingthepoems.

But,if thematteristhisperplexing,themannerismoreperplexingstill.

Theintellectualmanner,tobeginwith.Thereisnothinglesspoetic,lesslyricalthanC’sphilosophicalattitude.Itisquitedevoidof “imagination,”of vagueness,of “sympathy”with things.Far from“feeling” them,hismentalprocess, ahundred timesexplicitlyput, is thathedoesnot feelthem,orfeelwiththem.

Again,hissimplicityisfullof intellectualcomplexity.Heisapoetpurelyof sense,butheseemstohavehisintellectputouthissenses.

Then, again, he is absolutely self-conscious. He knows every possibleunconscious of his. Where there may be a big fault, he hastens to therescuewithasimpleanddirectargument.Where()

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Thisman,sopurelyorancientlyaprimitivegreekthatheisunworldly,isquite“modern”atthesametime.

...

It is this man of contradictions, this lucidly unworldly personality thatgives him his complex and intense originality—an originality, in everyway,scarcelyeverattainedbyanypoet:certainlyneverbeforeattainedbyanypoetborninawornandsophisticatedage.

Thomas Crosse

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The Keeper of Flocks(1911-1912)

If thecriticwillapplyhimself toacarefulanalysisof theseapparentlyvery simple poems, he will find himself again and again faced withunexpected and increasingly complex elements. Taking for axiomaticwhatimmediatelyimpresseshim—thenaturalnessandspontaneityof Caeiro’spoems—hewillbesurprisedtofindthattheyareatthesametime rigorously unified by a thinking which not only coordinates andlinksthem,butwhichalsoforeseesobjections,anticipatescriticism,andexplainsawayflawsbyintegratingtheseflawsintothespiritualsubstanceof thework.Thoughwethinkof Caeiroasanobjectivepoet—asindeedheis—infourof hispoemswefindhimexpressingentirelysubjectiveemotions.Butwearenotallowedthecruelsatisfactionof pointingouthiserror.Inthepoemprecedingthesepoems,heexplainsthattheywerewrittenduringanillness,andthereforetheymustbedifferentfromhisotherpoems,becausesicknessisnothealth.Thecriticisunabletoraisetohislipsthecupof hiscruelsatisfaction.Whenheseekstheslightlylessconcretepleasureof ferretingouttransgressionsagainstthework’sowninnertheory,heisconfrontedbypoemslikeNos.[...]and[...],wherehisobjectionshavealreadybeenraised,andhisquestionsanswered. Onlysomeonewhoreadsthisworkpatiently,andwithreadinessof spirit, can appraise what is surprising about Caeiro’s foresight and hisintellectual coherence (his coherence is in fact more intellectual thansentimentaloremotional). Caeiro’sworkistrulyamanifestationof apaganmind.Theorderanddisciplineof paganismwhichChristianitycausedustolose,thereasonedintelligenceof things,whichwaspaganism’smostobviousattributeandnolongerours—permeatehiswork.Becauseitspeakshereitsform,weseetheessence,nottheexteriorshape,of paganism.Inotherwords,IdonotseeCaeiroreconstructingtheexteriorformof paganism.Paganism’sverysubstancehasinfactbeensummonedupfromAvernus,asOrpheussummonedEurydice,bytheharmelodicmagicof Caeiro’semotion. Whatare,bymyowncriterion,thefaultsof thiswork?Onlytwo,andtheydolittletodimthebrightnessof thisbrotherof thegods. Caeiro’spoemslacktheonethingthatwouldcompletethem:thereis no exterior discipline to match the strength, coherency, and orderreigningintheheartof hiswork.Hechose,aswillbeseen,apoeticformwhich,thoughstronglypersonal—asitcouldnotfailtobe—ismerelythe free verse of the moderns. He did not control his writing with anover-archingdisciplinecomparabletothedisciplinewithwhichhenearly

14

alwayscontrolshisemotion,withwhichhealwayscontrolshisideas.Wemayforgivethisflaw,becausewemustforgivemuchininnovators,butwemustnotomitsayingthatitisaflaw,andnotadistinction. Neither did he fully control the sick emotions (still slightly demi-Christian) out of which his poet’s soul rose into the world. His ideas,alwaysessentiallypagan,aresometimescloakedinill-fittingemotivegarb.In “The Keeper of Flocks,” one can follow a gradual perfection takingplace.Thefinalpoems—especiallythefourorfiveprecedingthelasttwo—areperfectlyunifiedinideaandemotion.Iwouldforgivethepoetforremainingburdenedbycertainsentimentalaccoutrementsof Christianmentality if he had never, even at the end of the work, succeeded inriddinghimself of thatbaggage.Butsince,atacertainpointinhispoeticevolution,hedidsucceed,Idochastisehim,andIchastisehimseverely(asIchastisedhimseverelytohisface),fornotreturningtohisearlierpoemsandadjustingthemtohisacquireddiscipline. If hehadbeenunabletosubjectanyof themtothisdiscipline,heshouldhavecrossedthemoutentirely.Butthecouragetosacrifice isa traitseldomfoundinpoets. Itissomuchmoredifficulttoremakethanitistomakeforthefirsttime.Truly,contrarytotheoldsaying,thelaststepisthehardest. Andso,Ifindthe[...]poem,soirritatingtoaChristian,tobeabsolutelydeplorable for an objective poet in the process of reconstructing theessence of paganism. In this poem he descends to the utter nadir of Christian subjectivism,evenasdeepas thatadmixtureof theobjectiveandthesubjectivewhichformsthecharacteristicmaladyof themoderns— from certain pages in the in-tolerable work of the ill-named VictorHugo to the near-totality of the amorphous magma which sometimespassesforpoetryamongourcontemporarymystics. PerhapsIhaveexaggerated;perhapsIhaveabused.Havingbenefittedfrom the resurrection of paganism achieved by Caeiro, and having —as do all beneficiaries — busied myself with the easy secondary art of development, it isprobablyungratefulof metorailagainst thedefectsinherentintheinnovationfromwhichIhavesobenefited.But,whereIfinddefects,evenif Iforgivethem,Imustnamethemassuch.Magis amica veritas.

Ricardo Reis

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I

I’veneverkeptflocks,Butit’slikeI’vekeptthem.Mysoulislikeashepherd,ItknowsthewindandthesunAnditwalkshandinhandwiththeSeasons,Followingandseeing.Allthepeaceof NaturewithoutpeopleComesandsitsatmyside.ButIgetsadAsthesunsetisinourimaginationWhenitgetscolddownintheplainAndyoufeelnightcominginLikeabutterflythroughthewindow.

ButmysadnessisquietBecauseit’snaturalandit’sjustAndit’swhatshouldbeinmysoulWhenitalreadythinksitexistsAndmyhandspickflowersAndmysouldoesn’tknowit.Likethesoundof sheep’sbellsBeyondthecurveof theroad,Allmythoughtsarepeaceful.I’mjustsorryaboutknowingthey’repeaceful,Becauseif Ididn’tknowit,Insteadof thembeingpeacefulandsad,They’dbehappyandpeaceful.

ThinkingmakesyouuncomfortablelikewalkingintherainWhenthewindgetsstrongeranditseemstorainmore.

Idon’thaveambitionsordesires.Beingapoetisn’tmyambition,It’smywayof beingalone.

Andsometimesif IwantToimagineI’malamb(OrawholeflockSpreadingoutalloverthehillside

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SoIcanbealotof happythingsatthesametime),It’sonlybecauseIfeelwhatIwriteatsunset,OrwhenacloudpassesitshandoverthelightAndsilencerunsoverthegrassoutside.

WhenIsitandwritepoemsOr,walkingalongtheroadsorpaths,Iwritepoemsonthepaperinmythinking,Ifeelastaff inmyhandAndseemysilhouetteOntopof aknoll,Lookingaftermyflockandseeingmyideas,Orlookingaftermyideasandseeingmyflock,Withasillysmilelikewhenyoudon’tunderstandwhatsomebody’ssayingButyouwanttopretendyoudo.

Igreeteveryonewhoreadsme,ItipmywidehattothemWhentheyseemeatmydoorJustasthestagecoachcomestothetopof thehill.Igreetthemandwishthemsunshine,Orrain,whentheyneedrain,AndthattheirhouseshaveAfavoritechairWheretheysitreadingmypoemsByanopenwindow.Andwhentheyreadmypoems,IhopetheythinkI’msomethingnatural—Theancienttree,forexample,WheretheysatdownwithathumpIntheshadewhentheywerekidsAllwornoutplaying,andwipedthesweatFromtheirhotbrowsWiththesleeveof theirstripedcottonsmocks.

(3/8/1914)

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II

WhenIlook,Iseeclearasasunflower.I’malwayswalkingtheroadsLookingrightandleft,Andsometimeslookingbehind...AndwhatIseeeverysecondIssomethingI’veneverseenbefore,AndIknowhowtodothisverywell...IknowhowtoholdtheastonishmentAchildwouldhaveif itcouldreallyseeItwasbeingbornwhenitwasbeingborn...Ifeelmyself beingbornineachmoment,Intheeternalnewnessof theworld...

IbelieveintheworldlikeIbelieveinamarigold,BecauseIseeit.ButIdon’tthinkaboutitBecausetothinkistonotunderstand...Theworldwasn’tmadeforustothinkabout(Tothinkistobesickintheeyes)Butforustolookatandagreewith...

Idon’thaveaphilosophy:Ihavesenses...If ItalkaboutNature,it’snotbecauseIknowwhatitis,ButbecauseIloveit,andthereasonIloveitIsbecausewhenyouloveyouneverknowwhatyoulove,Orwhyyoulove,orwhatlovingis...

Lovingiseternalinnocence,Andtheonlyinnocenceisnotthinking...

(3/8/1914)

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III

Intheevening,leaningoutmywindow,Watchingthefieldsoutfrontfromundermybrows,IreadCesárioVerde’sbookUntilmyeyeswereburning.

Ifeltsosorryforhim!HewaslikeamanfromthecountryAndhewalkedthroughthecitylikehewasoutonbail.Butthewayhelookedathouses,Andthewayhesawthestreets,Andthewayhehadof takingthingsin,Waslikesomeonelookingattrees,OrloweringtheireyestotheroadwheretheygowalkingOrtakingintheflowersinthefields...

That’swhyhehadthatgreatsadnessHecouldneverreallysayhehad,Butwalkedinthecitylikesomeonewalkinginthecountry,Sad,likepressingflowersinbooksAndputtingplantsinjars...

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IV

ThisafternoonastormfellDownfromtheskyontothehillsidesLikeahugepileof gravel...

Likesomeoneshakingatableclothoutof ahighwindow,AndallthescrapsfallingtogetherMakesomenoisewhentheyfall,ThehissingrainrainedfromtheskyAnddarkenedtheroads...

WhenlightningflashesintheairAndspaceshakesLikeabigheadsayingno,Idon’tknowwhy—Idon’tfeelafraid—IstartprayingtoSaintBarbaraLikeIwassomebody’soldaunt...

Ah!it’sjustthatprayingtoSaintBarbaraMakesmefeelevenmoresimpleThanIthinkIam...IfeelhomeyanddomesticLikeI’vegonethroughlifeTranquilly,likethewallof myyard;IhaveideasandfeelingsbyhavingthemLikeaflowerhasperfumeandcolor...

ItmakesmefeellikesomeonewhocanbelieveinSt.Barbara...Ah,tobeabletobelieveinSt.Barbara!

(Whoeverbelievesthere’saSt.BarbaraBelieveshe’sapersonyoucanseeOrelsewhatwouldtheybelieveabouther?)

(Howphony!Whatdoflowers,treesandflocksKnowaboutSt.Barbara?...If abranchof atreeCouldthink,itneverwouldConstruesaintsorangels...ItwouldbeabletothinkthesunGiveslightandastorm

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IsanangrybunchofPeopleaboveus...Ah,howthesimplestof menAresickandconfusedandstupidNexttotheclearsimplicityAndhealthinexistingOf treesandplants!)

Andme,thinkingaboutallthis,Ibecamelesshappyagain...IbecamesomberandsickenedandgloomyLikewhenastormthreatensalldayAndevenbynightitdoesn’tcome...

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V

There’senoughmetaphysicsinnotthinkingaboutanything.

WhatdoIthinkabouttheworld?IhavenoideawhatIthinkabouttheworld!If IgetsickI’llthinkaboutthatstuff.

WhatideadoIhaveaboutthings?WhatopiniondoIhaveaboutcauseandeffect?WhathaveImeditatedonGodandthesoulAndonthecreationof theworld?Idon’tknow.Formethinkingaboutthatstuff isshuttingmyeyesAndnotthinking.It’sclosingthecurtains(Butmywindowdoesn’thavecurtains).

Themysteryof things?Ihavenoideawhatmysteryis!Theonlymysteryistherebeingsomeonewhothinksaboutmystery.Whenyou’reinthesunandshutyoureyes,YoustartnotknowingwhatthesunisAndyouthinkalotof thingsfullof heat.ButyouopenyoureyesandlookatthesunAndyoucan’tthinkaboutanythinganymore,Becausethesun’slightisworthmorethanthethoughtsOf allthephilosophersandpoets.Sunlightdoesn’tknowwhatit’sdoingSoit’sneverwrongandit’scommonandgood.

Metaphysics?Whatmetaphysicsdothosetreeshave?Of beinggreenandbushyandhavingbranchesAndof givingfruitintheirowntime,whichdoesn’tmakeusthink,Tous,whodon’tknowhowtopayattentiontothem.Butwhatbettermetaphysicsthantheirs,WhichisnotknowingwhattheyliveforNotevenknowingtheydon’tknow?“Innerconstitutionof things...”“Innermeaningof theUniverse...”Allthatstuff isfalse,allthatstuff meansnothing.It’sincrediblethatsomeonecouldthinkaboutthingsthatway.It’slikethinkingreasonsandpurposesWhenmorningstartsshining,andbythetreesoverthereAvaguelustrousgoldisdrivingthedarknessaway.

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Thinkingabouttheinnermeaningof thingsIsdoingtoomuch,likethinkingabouthealthwhenyou’rehealthy,Orbringingacuptoaspring.

Theonlyinnermeaningof thingsIsthattheyhavenoinnermeaningatall.

Idon’tbelieveinGodbecauseIneversawhim.If hewantedmetobelieveinhim,Ihavenodoubthe’dcometalkwithmeAndcomeinmydoorTellingme,Here I am!

(MaybethisisridiculoustotheearsOf someonewho,becausetheydon’tknowwhatitistolookatthings,Doesn’tunderstandsomeonewhotalksaboutthemWiththewayof speakinglookingatthemteaches.)

Butif GodistheflowersandthetreesAndthehillsandthesunandthemoonlight,ThenIbelieveinhim,ThenIbelieveinhimallthetime,Andmywholelifeisanorationandamass,Andacommunionwithmyeyesandthroughmyears.

Butif GodisthetreesandtheflowersAndthehillsandthemoonlightandthesun,WhyshouldIcallhimGod?Icallhimflowersandtreesandhillsandsunandmoonlight;Becauseif hemadehimself formetoseeAsthesunandmoonlightandflowersandtreesandhills,If heappearstomeastreesandhillsAndmoonlightandsunandflowers,It’sbecausehewantsmetoknowhimAstreesandhillsandflowersandmoonlightandsun.

Andthat’swhyIobeyhim,(WhatmoredoIknowaboutGodthanGodknowsabouthimself ?),Iobeyhimbyliving,spontaneously,Likesomeoneopeninghiseyesandseeing,

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AndIcallhimmoonlightandsunandflowersandtreesandhills,AndIlovehimwithoutthinkingabouthim,AndIthinkhimbyseeingandhearing,AndI’mwithhimallthetime.