Something is with me,
and something leaves me,
and it perhaps is my soul,
or my twin self,
or the space between waves,
the pause in a rhythm,
but it comes and goes,
and like a wild thing,
refuses to be caught.
And if I catch it,
it would die,
so I don’t build bars for it,
or a hidden snare,
for being wild it would leave forever,
with the dust that has blown away,
or the wing that is part of the wind.
So I behave myself,
and go to the passage
where there are no ships, no roads.
It is a harbor without piers or people,
or cottages,
or smoke in the winter.
It is the silent horizon
off the beach,
the sand where only crabs make a mark,
and trees keep their distance.
Where I am permitted,
even welcomed if I touch nothing,
if I receive the world as it secretly is,
full of passion and dark feeling.
And words,
which share the fragile sound
of a deeper light,
and freedom,
which truly needs to be free.
It belongs to me,
if I dare not to possess it.
It holds me if I let it go.
It speaks to me if I don’t interrupt.
It is wild,
and like all wild things
it comes to the shore,
to drink peace,
to listen and look,
and if I am very quiet,
permits me to touch it.