that there is a wind for which I have no wise words.
There it is, blowing, and as it has no thoughts
of its own neither have the trees nor the people.
There are no wisecracks for such kinds of thoughtlessness.
And so, I am fond of the wind as of any thoughtless
person, safe from either, with nothing to say
to one or the other, as I would have nothing to say
to throngs on 42nd Street, streaming in and out
of subways and theatres, they neither able
to make great decisions in their person
nor to act decisively on the world,
and so, between these two conflicting and frustrated
needs decide finally to end up as theatregoers,
and I, seated in comfort at home, still hearing
the wind, make no allusion to criticism,
knowing what the wind means for us all.
We will be blown out of this world,
with talk on our lips. We will be blown away
and we will have others in our place
who will try just as hard to make sense,
to talk straight and bitter, sarcastic
and penetrating and end up tossed like leaves
upon the ocean of wind and carried seaward
with the helplessness of the newborn.