Where Does it Come From?
Where does it come from—this tingle of my flesh for the answer of the flesh?
Where does it come from—this ecstasy of my soul for the answer of the soul?
It fills me until I run over, it empties me until I run dry, and does not explain:
It visits me in sorrow and visits me in gladness and does not explain:
It sins through me, its goodness is good through me, and yet it does not explain:
To me it does not explain—to me, the asker of questions, it does not explain.
I stood irresolutely at the door of explanation with my hand on the knob:
I stood there and argued with myself and did not go in—no, I turned and went away
It seemed to me that the door of explanation was the door of death—
It seemed to me that if the secret was given out to me I would die at once:
I knew then that if I ever found the knot untied I should say good bye to the finished worlds:
So I did not go in—I turned away and found my way back to the companioning crowd.
I look at myself and I say: What a puzzle I am! And I ask myself: Who can unravel me?
Suppose all was told—suppose I exhausted the treasures of revelation?
I shuddered and shrank away: I was so eager to be alive and so hated to think about life!
The pall of wisdom was upon me and I was unequal to the load.
Somehow I feel that the fool alone is perfectly at ease in the universe.
The fool alone is at home among things, on whatever stars or suns, without license or restraint,
The fool soul finding its fool welcome wherever it goes.
I hear men praying—praying to know all and more than all:
I, too, pray—pray to know nothing and less than nothing.
I am sick to death of knowing things and the burden of things,
I am well to life of knowing nothing and of my empty hands.
The lords god have been very generous to me—they have sent me undeniable treasures,
Each day I pass them all back because it is enough for me and too much to have nothing.
Let me speak, O lords god, in the language of the first silences:
I break loose in song, I am mad with the rhythms of praise:
I live the life of feasting and starvation without the knowledge of gladness and sorrow,
I pass among men as a man who can live and not suspect the quality or the plenty of life
They say of me: He knows nothing—he is one of God's fools.
I open my first eyes upon the glory of the green earth,
I gesture with my first arms in the blind exhilaration of the animal at play in the field,
I do not try to pronounce the simplest syllables of the schools:
They baffle me with their show, they cheat me with their substance.
I stand with the trees that know nothing of the alphabet of criticism and could not tell me why the seed comes before the flower,
I stand with the cloud that floats across the sky and could not tell me why the rain falls,
I stand with the dreamers of crazy dreams which give no account of themselves,
I stand with all these, my comrade fools, God's fool among God's dear fools,
With my reason shut, fast shut, explaining nothing,
With my eyes open, wide open, seeing everything.
Where does it come from?
Where does it come from—this ecstasy of my soul for the answer of the soul?
It fills me until I run over, it empties me until I run dry, and does not explain:
It visits me in sorrow and visits me in gladness and does not explain:
It sins through me, its goodness is good through me, and yet it does not explain:
To me it does not explain—to me, the asker of questions, it does not explain.
I stood irresolutely at the door of explanation with my hand on the knob:
I stood there and argued with myself and did not go in—no, I turned and went away
It seemed to me that the door of explanation was the door of death—
It seemed to me that if the secret was given out to me I would die at once:
I knew then that if I ever found the knot untied I should say good bye to the finished worlds:
So I did not go in—I turned away and found my way back to the companioning crowd.
I look at myself and I say: What a puzzle I am! And I ask myself: Who can unravel me?
Suppose all was told—suppose I exhausted the treasures of revelation?
I shuddered and shrank away: I was so eager to be alive and so hated to think about life!
The pall of wisdom was upon me and I was unequal to the load.
Somehow I feel that the fool alone is perfectly at ease in the universe.
The fool alone is at home among things, on whatever stars or suns, without license or restraint,
The fool soul finding its fool welcome wherever it goes.
I hear men praying—praying to know all and more than all:
I, too, pray—pray to know nothing and less than nothing.
I am sick to death of knowing things and the burden of things,
I am well to life of knowing nothing and of my empty hands.
The lords god have been very generous to me—they have sent me undeniable treasures,
Each day I pass them all back because it is enough for me and too much to have nothing.
Let me speak, O lords god, in the language of the first silences:
I break loose in song, I am mad with the rhythms of praise:
I live the life of feasting and starvation without the knowledge of gladness and sorrow,
I pass among men as a man who can live and not suspect the quality or the plenty of life
They say of me: He knows nothing—he is one of God's fools.
I open my first eyes upon the glory of the green earth,
I gesture with my first arms in the blind exhilaration of the animal at play in the field,
I do not try to pronounce the simplest syllables of the schools:
They baffle me with their show, they cheat me with their substance.
I stand with the trees that know nothing of the alphabet of criticism and could not tell me why the seed comes before the flower,
I stand with the cloud that floats across the sky and could not tell me why the rain falls,
I stand with the dreamers of crazy dreams which give no account of themselves,
I stand with all these, my comrade fools, God's fool among God's dear fools,
With my reason shut, fast shut, explaining nothing,
With my eyes open, wide open, seeing everything.
Where does it come from?
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