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Where all is uncertain, and nobody knows,

O shimmering lake, where the lake dweller goes.

Around the lake are flowers and weeds

Giving the lake dweller the privacy she needs.

The certainty of what we are, and know,

Cannot be stopped. A glimpse detects the high and low.

You will judge them, you will—out on the street;

You know them, homeless, and writhing at your feet.

It doesn’t matter what the personalities say,

And if these are more intelligent than anyone can say.

You know the high and you know the low

At first glance. You know, you know.

If you feel emotional about things like this

You will never be calm enough to enjoy the kiss.

You will never be able to sink into the pond

Where giant fish in the shadows are found.

If you think you know the rounded lake,

This might be your worst mistake.

The lake doesn’t wait for you, like love.

Go under. Forget those reflections you saw from above.

Come to the cold. To where nothing is known. Go.

Only when you do not know, will there be a chance to know.

Only when you take steps, tenuously, without aid,

Is there a chance for sunshine to come into the shade.

Where does the composer get the storm?

The aching for cool, and the weeping for warm?

The composer half-slumbers, half-works, in calm.

Only distraction can do him harm.

Only the living which is inarticulate is true,

And will let him see what he has to do.

Slowly, in unknown hours, he learned the art,

Which now, calmly, he plays by heart.

Only excitement will end his reign.

Feelings harm. Whether sane or insane.

The lake is not a lake. And nobody knows

The lake, serene, where the lake dweller goes.


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