Classic Poem

In the spring, when winds blew and farmers were plowing fields,
It came into my mind to be glad because of my brutality.

Along a street I went and over a bridge.
I went through many streets in my city and over many bridges.
Men and women I struck with my fists, and my hands began to bleed.

Under a bridge I crawled, and stood trembling with joy
At the river's edge.
Because it was spring and soft sunlight came through the cracks of the bridge,
I tried to understand myself.

Out of the mud at the river's edge I molded myself a god—
A grotesque little god with a twisted face,
A god for myself and my men.
You see now, brother, how it was.

I was a man with clothes made by a Jewish tailor;
Cunningly wrought clothes, made for a nameless one.
I wore a white collar and someone had given me a jeweled pin
To wear at my throat.
That amused and hurt me too.

No one knew that I knelt in the mud beneath the bridge
In the city of Chicago.

You see I am whispering my secret to you.

I want you to believe in my insanity and to understand that I love God—
That's what I want.

And then, you see, it was spring,
And soft sunlight came through the cracks of the bridge.
I had been long alone in a strange place where no gods came.

Creep, men, and kiss the twisted face of my mud god.
I'll not hit you with my bleeding fists—
I'm a twisted God myself.

It is spring and love has come to me.
Love has come to me and to my men.