At 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
some 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 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?
Their silence said.
You will be so when you are dead.