How vain,
to want to see the poet’s face
so long
after his death. As if I’d find
some
vestige of his wisdom, or some trace
of all his
words, some aspect of his mind
within his
face. What, even, would I ask
of these
sad eyes, this craggy nose, these lines
set in by
his life’s grief, if these lips cast
in stone
began to speak? The face, perhaps
like every
face, is nothing but a mask;
and I try
not to see, but wear, the mask.
Very fine - chiselled even - poem. Very good indeed.
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