ON he goes, the little
one,
Bud of the
universe,
Pediment
of life.
Setting off somewhere,
apparently.
Whither
away, brisk egg?
His mother deposited him on the soil
as if he were no more
than
droppings.
And now
he scuffles tinily past her as if she were an old
rusty
tin.
A mere obstacle,
He veers round the slow great
mound of her —
Tortoises always foresee obstacles.
It is no use my saying to him in an
emotional voice:
“This is your Mother, she laid you when you were an
egg.”
He does not even trouble to answer:
“Woman, what have I
to do with thee?”
He wearily looks the other
way,
And she even
more wearily looks another way still,
Each with the utmost apathy,
Incognisant,
Unaware,
Nothing.
As for papa,
He snaps when I offer him his
offspring,
Just as
he snaps when I poke a bit of stick at him,
Because he is irascible this
morning, an irascible tortoise
Being touched with love, and devoid of
fatherliness.
Father and mother,
And three little
brothers,
And all
rambling aimless, like little perambulating pebbles
scattered in the garden.
Not knowing each other from bits of earth or old
tins.
Except that papa and mama are old
acquaintances, of course,
Though family feeling there is none, not even
the beginnings.
Fatherless, motherless, brotherless,
sisterless
Little
tortoise.
Row on then, small
pebble,
Over the
clods of the autumn, wind-chilled sunshine,
Young
gaiety.
Does he look for a companion?
No, no, don’t think it.
He doesn’t know he is
alone;
Isolation is
his birthright,
This
atom.
To row forward, and reach himself
tall on spiny toes,
To travel, to burrow into a little loose earth, afraid of
the
night,
To crop a little substance,
To move, and to be quite sure
that he is moving:
Basta!
To be a
tortoise!
Think of
it, in a garden of inert clods
A brisk, brindled little tortoise, all to
himself —
Croesus!
In a garden of pebbles and
insects
To roam, and
feel the slow heart beat
Tortoise-wise, the first bell
sounding
From the
warm blood, in the dark-creation morning.
Moving, and being
himself,
Slow, and
unquestioned,
And
inordinately there, O stoic!
Wandering in the slow triumph of his own
existence,
Ringing
the soundless bell of his presence in chaos,
And biting the frail grass
arrogantly,
Decidedly arrogantly.