XVIII
The flies are 
flying about 
and about 
the middle of the room—
jerkily 
in geometrical figures; 
what are they trying to prove—
my guardian angels?

I have said good morning to the man at the door, 
good morning to the man polishing the stairs.
Seated in my arm-chair,
on a cushion, 
I, the shepherd, stare at my flock—
ten flies.
I came penniless 
and found only a few, 
never bothered my head about them, 
did not pay them, 
neither gave them to eat or to drink, 
nor even spoke to them, 
and, look!
I shall cross the Jordan with at least twelve flies, 
maybe, twelve times twelve:
how unworthy am I 
of all this generosity!

I have become poor, it seems: 
my flies are gone—except one 
flying jerkily
about the room.
You do not buzz, my fly:
deep in thought, no doubt.
That is well.
I, too, am learning how to be silent, 
and have learned long ago,
how to be alone.