I would have
gladly thrown away
the mask of silence
and the cloak of solemnity I wear
to let myself wade through the thicket
of loneliness
Even would have let you
eavesdrop
into the soliloquy
that goes incessant
within me
Would have introduced you to
Blake blaring away secrets,
Emily evading me yet,
and Whitman taking his time
all the while remaining aloof happily.
Is there anything worth a word
to utter,
to write,
once you've been fortunate
to know these greats?
As Wislawa is coming to an end,
I ask myself
ways to wear the skin of Blake
to get me over the moulting of Wislawa
who's been more than just a literary delight
and companion of my days
Having long become that gail
to the feather airborne,
the rudder that takes me places-
a sojourn unchartered into realms unexplored,
the wind that gives me wings-
making me light as the verses
that do not care to weigh
or wear me down.
There is not another Wislawa.
There is no other Blake.
I would have to make do with
just life
without regrets.
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