Classic Poem

I have whetted the word, whetted and polished it. Now it sparkles like silver — but it is whittled .
With my blood and marrow I caused it to grow. Now it has overgrown me .
I fling it from me then, as fakirs in juggling toss lethargic reptiles far away from themselves .
Like a boomerang hurled by the hand of a negro — it is howling back wherever I turn .