Susa literatura - Poesia kaiera

Not for a nation: / Not the dividing, the estranging, thing / For; / Nor, in a world so small, the insulation / Of dream from dream—where dreams are links in the chain / Of a common hope; that man may yet regain / His dignity on earth—where before all / Eyes: small eyes of elephant and shark; still / Eyes of lizard grey in the sub-tropic noon. / Blowing his throat out into a scarlet, edged-with-cream incredible balloon / Suddenly, and suddenly dancing, hoisting and lowering his body on his short legs on the hot stone window-sill; / And the eyes of the upturned, grooved and dusty, rounded, dull cut-worm / Staring upward at the spade,— / These, all these, and more, from the corner of the eye see man, infirm, / Tottering like a tree about to fall,— / Who yet had such high dreams—who not for this was made (or so said he),—nor did design to die at all. // Not for a nation, / Not the dividing, the estranging thing / For; / Nor, on a world so small, the insulation / Of dream from dream, / In what might be today, had we been better welders, a new chain for pulling down old buildings, uprooting the wrong trees; these / Not for; / Not for my country right or wrong; / Not for the drum or the bugle; not for the song / Which pipes me away from my home against my will along with the other children / To where I would not go / And makes me say what I promised never to say, and do the thing I am through with— / Into the Piper’s Hill; / Not for the flag / Of any land because myself was born there / Will I give up my life. / But I will love that land where man is free, / And that will I defend. / “To the end?” you ask, “To the end?”—Naturally, to the end. // What is it to the world, or to me, / That I beneath an elm, not beneath a tamarisk-tree / First filled my lungs, and clenched my tiny hands already spurred and nailed / Against the world, and wailed / In anger and frustration that all my tricks had failed and I been tom / Out of the cave where I was hiding, to suffer in the world as I have done and I still do— / Never again—oh, no, no more on earth—ever again to find abiding-place. / Birth—awful birth ... / Whatever the country, whatever the colour and race. // The colour and the traits of each, / The shaping of his speech,— / These can the elm, given a long time, alter; these, / Too, the tamarisk. / But if he starve, but if he freeze— / Early, in his own tongue, he knows; / And though with arms or bows or a dipped thorn / Blown through a tube, he fights—the brisk / Rattle of shot he is not slow to tell / From the sound of ripe seed bursting from a poddy shell ; / And he whom, all his life, life has abused / Yet knows if he be justly or unjustly used. // I know these elms, this beautiful doorway: here / I am at home, if anywhere. / A natural fondness, an affection which need never be said, / Rises from the wooden sidewalks warm as the smell of new-baked bread / From a neighbour’s kitchen. It is dusk. The sun goes down. / Sparsely strung along the street the thrifty lights appear. / It is pleasant. It is good. / I am very well-known here; here I am understood. / I can walk along the street, or turn into a path unlighted, without fear / Of poisonous snakes, or of any face in town. / Tall elms, my roots go down / As deep as yours into this soil, yes, quite as deep. / And I hear the rocking of my cradle. And I must not sleep. // Not for a nation; not for a little town, / Where, when the sun goes down, you may sit without fear / On the front porch, just out of reach of the arc-light, rocking, / With supper ready, wearing a pale new dress, and your baby near / In its crib, and your husband due to be home by the next trolley that you hear bumping into Elm Street—no: / But for a dream that was dreamt an elm-tree’s life ago— / And longer, yes, much longer, and what I mean you know. // For the dream, for the plan, for the freedom of man as it was meant / To be; / Not for the structure set up so lustily, by rule of thumb / And over-night, bound to become / Loose, lop-sided, out of plumb, / But for the dream, for the plan, for the freedom of man as it was meant / To be / By men with more vision, more wisdom, more purpose, more brains / Than we, / (Possibly, possibly) / Men with more courage, men more unselfish, more intent / Than we, upon their dreams, upon their dream of Freedom,— Freedom not alone / For oneself, but for all, wherever the word is known, / In whatever tongue, or the longing in whatever spirit— / Men with more honour. (That remains / To be seen! That we shall see!) // Possibly. Possibly. // And if still these truths be held to be / Self-evident.