In the heart of his being he did not belong
and the sounds which he made
were neither poetry nor song
The spring evening is cool and peaceful
Beneath a canopy of cherry blossom
a group of artists are relaxing
One plays a guitar
the others talk quietly
each asserting a fragile independence
Drunk and inquisitive
a stranger stops to stare
He desires to share in their sharing
Uninvited, he sits down
He offers to buy them a drink
He proffers a handful of banknotes
Politely rejected, he becomes abusive
Don't preach to me! he snarls
You're not men!
I could put you through that window!
I've seen piles of bodies!
I've been a mercenary!
But as he cast his wild eyes down
he saw a dead thing on the ground
and from out its eyes down to its chin
the worms crawled out, the worms crawled in
Then to the group his silence said
Shall I be so when I am dead?
You will indeed
Their silent voices said
You will be so when you are dead