Are they refractions of the words we throw?Are they new voices from new horizons?
Are they ancient sunken kingdoms?
Whose voice is this, coming forth without accent?
Is it an émigré who sings in this catholic timbre?
A new savage with utterly new eyes?
Is it an unsuspected familiar?
Knowing notes which were not learned in classrooms?
Whoever he is, he is loved briefly
All men take him into themselves
Even you let his spirit wash you
You welcome him from his curious journey
And hope for his tales to impart society to you
This voice is the same with which I at times speak
Not American, not of Niger, not of Samarkand
of the universe, of real
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