THE FOOL

Village Fool, in my own,

I’m to sad dogs well known,

they are white dogs tired dazed,

out far as can be gazed,

none bark at me, annoy:

from afar bring me joy,

they’re cloud-dogs by the way,

running not whimpering.

Drunk with sad hankering,

whither bound, we’re unsure:

bless my soul I implore.

Shepherd of ancient days

with gifts profound appraise

the moon and wakefulness,

thorn-ridden heaviness

on your brow, torn again

just like the heart.

Amen