Creator

I remember well a certain poem,

The glory as it was born:

After long travail the glory

As I carved into their places

Those little last words that made it done.

I waved the writing over my head like a flag.

I read it and read it again, chanting;

Walking under trees, chanting it to the sky.

Te sound it made in my ears was beautiful,

And it made delicious smooth movements in my mouth,

Made my feet dance.

I cried aloud in delight;

I said: "It is good,

It is very good."

The joy beat in my side fast;

Beat in my throat.

There were tears in my throat

So that I could hardly behold where I walked,

So that I seemed taller than the trees,

My head was so proud.