You pay your debts and then pass on again.
Truth learned from others is your duty now.
That is the joy of poets and the pain.
You have to pass it on and don’t know how
to make it yours, and yet maintain it true
as when the blind one heard it from a god
the island girl, drunk butterfly, those who
whispered in forests, those who acheing trod
the pilgrim’s road to Mecca or to Rome
whose song was not their fellow devotees’.
The more you know, the less you have a home
the less the chance that you will ever please
Princes or priests or lovers. Words alone
and those who love them, all the friends you own.