And he was hurt because people said and did what he did not want them to say and do. And he pointed out the finger at them and said, ‘Eight years ago you offended me.
And you told me what I didn’t want to hear. And I will preserve in my memory your
words. Your words!’ And he did that. For he did not know yet that one moment is
not eternity and that what is has a reason that lasts for a moment only and that that
reason changes with ages. And he has grown mad waiting for a pardon that only he
possesses. And he is not ready to forgive what was, to live in peace with what is.
And the madman, mad,
Crystallised one offence
Of his sad past, sad,
And brought it, tense,
To his present sense.
And forged a story
That grew each year,
Of how once his glory
Was stolen by fear,
By others, by a phrase
By breath, by breast,
By anyone, in a maze
That will ever last.
And blames the past;
Easier than to blame
Himself for what cast
Was by his sad shame.
