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Well I stepped into an avalanche, |
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it covered up my soul; |
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when I am not this hunchback that you see, |
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I sleep beneath the golden hill. |
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You who wish to conquer pain, |
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you must learn, learn to serve me well. |
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You strike my side by accident |
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as you go down for your gold. |
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The cripple here that you clothe and feed |
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is neither starved nor cold; |
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he does not ask for your company, |
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not at the centre, the centre of the world. |
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When I am on a pedestal, |
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you did not raise me there. |
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Your laws do not compel me |
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to kneel grotesque and bare. |
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I myself am the pedestal |
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for this ugly hump at which you stare. |
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You who wish to conquer pain, |
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you must learn what makes me kind; |
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the crumbs of love that you offer me, |
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they're the crumbs I've left behind. |
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Your pain is no credential here, |
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it's just the shadow, shadow of my wound. |
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I have begun to long for you, |
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I who have no greed; |
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I have begun to ask for you, |
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I who have no need. |
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You say you've gone away from me, |
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but I can feel you when you breathe. |
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Do not dress in those rags for me, |
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I know you are not poor; |
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you don't love me quite so fiercely now |
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when you know that you are not sure, |
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it is your turn, beloved, |
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it is your flesh that I wear. |
