The boy breathes in affinity with a sullen star,
beholds it in a pure, unfalsifying eye,
listens to the silence of the sky,
and reads a mute concordance
between himself and sky as text.
He resists, asserting himself against all
comprehension and discussion,
all attempts to solve the secrets of youth
with the cold magic of the concept
as he persists in the being of a thing in itself.
The grandfather’s hands demand emergence
from the narcissistic shade of youth.
Commanded by the Fathers and the wise,
the boy must break the wing,
embark upon a flight of the alone to the Alone.
This is a voyage of the young in soul,
countermanding death’s demands.
But what becomes an Icarus beating
wings against the bulging red,
an unselved youth lusting after death?
An old man in the sunset, yearning
for night and the light of the sullen star,
the boy must fall and fall utterly.
There is no searching of his understanding,
no probing of the depthless deep.