Well, on the day I was born,
God was sick...
They all know that I'm alive,
that I chew my food...and they don't know
why harsh winds whistle in my poems,
the narrow uneasiness of a coffin,
winds untangled from the sphinx...
On the day I was born,
God was sick,
As I get older I'm trying to accept this state of feeling.
Thank you to Robert Bly for introducing me to this poem.