tell you Eddie, I'm gonna do a few love poems. And the first I'll do, here's a poem, as some of you know, there's a kind of crisis in poetry right now, and it's related to free verse. Whitman has been my, I love Whitman all my life, and there's something about Whitman that isn't, I'm getting sick of him. And several people put it in a different way, Robert Haas, who's probably the finest critic of his generation, says that he thinks it's possible that free verse is bankrupt now. Free verse was a form, and it's worn out like any form. This makes us very nervous, because we associate free verse with the Declaration of Independence and things like this. So, why this terrific reluctance to come to your forum? Well,

[01:40]

because one reason is that we connect form with disciplines imposed on us by others. We associate form with kings who are unjust to their wonderful serfs. All of the propaganda about the Middle Ages. But that's a limited idea of form. From the point of view of Pythagoras, this is form. Form is when you... The fact that this bouzouki here with its monochord could have the same proportions as that's between the speeds of the planets. That is called form. The whole universe has form. The snail shell has form. There are no free verse snail shells. It's a

[02:49]

terrifying idea. So, the idea is that form is connected out there. So I made up a joke I was writing, and it occurred to me that a great poem, a good poem, is like a snail. It has exactly the right number of legs, exactly the right amount of lung capacity for the muscles, exactly the right number of vertebrae. Therefore, it lives century after century. But then I said to myself, well, this would take recruitment again. What would one of his long poems look like if it were an animal? I said, well, it would be an animal about two miles long, with a head with four feet, and an enormous stomach, a mile and a half long, and it would be eaten by the first line that entered the forest. The climate has been very good for Whitman, but what

[03:51]

if we have a drought? You understand me? That the animal with form lives through various changes, and still is alive. And no way is this to diminish anything, bring anything away from Whitman's staggering ability to sympathize with the universe and his great feeling, his heavenly great form. But he's our father, and you know they are all false and our fathers. So, I have another idea, that form is only really fruitful if the descent has already taken place. Academic form is form in which the person has remained here, and has not gone down. So many of us were poisoned in college, because we were taught by people who were above, and had never descended. And form, if you

[04:56]

have not descended, may be dangerous, or hostile to human soul. Does that make any sense? I just had this thought about an hour ago. But I've been sneaking up on it for a long while. So someone asked me in the intermission if I would do a thing called love, a poem called love poem in twos and threes. And this is not in free verse, but it's in the remage is not in free verse either, since it has 85 syllables. And form seems to be connected with an amount of limitations you put on yourself, not the amount that other people put on you. So, in this case, I'm using a line of two beats and three beats, either two beats or three beats, and Yeats did a lot in that line. And I'll give you this poem called love poem in twos and threes. And there's a mention here of the weird thing you see when you, this terrific longing for going up, it's in our country. Some people want nothing but enlightenment, you know that?

[05:59]

They never seem to want endarkenment. So, the Rajneesh people are the most insane in that area. They've got a pocket of light inside organ and now everyone else in the state is furious. Just a joke, just a joke, just a joke. But there's a mention of it here in the second line. So, what kind of people are these? Some stammer of land, some want nothing but light, no house or land thrown away for a woman, no ample recklessness. How much I need a woman's soul felt in my own knees, shoulders, and hands. I was born sad. I am a

[07:16]

northern goat of winter light, up to my knees in snow. Standing by you, I am glad as the clams at high tide. Eerily content as the amorous ocean owls. What kind of people are these? I was talking with a woman today and she said, you know, one of the problems is, is a kind of lack of adventurousness that you sometimes feel in, in males in the last 20 years. You know what I mean? They read New Age and that's it. They know what the truth is, found bad, you know. I'm not mocking this group at all because there's a lot of complications in

[08:24]

everything here, as you all know. Not to say contradictions. What kind of people are these? Some stammer of land, some want nothing but light, no house or land thrown away for a woman, no ample recklessness. How much I need a woman's soul felt in my own knees, shoulders, and hands. I was born sad. This is a description of a Capricorn. I was born sad. I am a northern goat of winter light, up to my knees in snow. Standing by you, I am glad as the clams at high tide. Eerily content as the amorous ocean owls.

[09:30]

I'll do you another little one. I'll do you another little one in form. This one is, uh, in er. It uses the sound er as a homage in er. Can I do it without the bazookian and with, or how would that be for you? Yeah, yeah, one with and one without. With and then without, or without and then with? One without and then one with. I'll do it the way I want to do it. Yes, I'm a social rebel. I'll do it as I wish. All right, it's a little poem in er. Early in the morning, the hermit wakes, hearing the roots of the fir tree stir beneath his floor. Someone is there, that strength buried in earth, carries up the summer world. When a man loves a woman, he nourishes her.

[10:45]

Dancers strew the lawn with the light of their feet. And when a woman loves the earth, she nourishes it. And earth nourishes what no one can see. All right, I'll do it once more the same way. Chances are, since we are brought through life in the printed poem form, you listen for the meaning. That's all you can get out of a printed poem is a meaning. We use this lobe of the brain. This time, see if you can listen with this lobe of the brain to the sound. Try it once more. Early in the morning, the hermit wakes, hearing the roots of the fir tree stir beneath his floor. Someone is there, that strength buried in earth, carries up the summer world. When a man loves a

[11:52]

woman, he nourishes her. Dancers strew the lawn with the light of their feet. When a woman loves the earth, she nourishes it. And earth nourishes what no one can see. Now I'll do it for the bazooki. Listen with your third brain this time. Now you'll have to listen to three musics. The music of meaning, the music of the words sound inside, and the music of this one. Hmm. Early in the morning, the hermit wakes,

[12:53]

hearing the roots of the fir tree stir beneath his floor. Someone is there, that strength buried in earth, carries up the summer world. When a man loves a woman, he nourishes her. Dancers strew the lawn with the light of their feet. When a man loves a woman, he nourishes her. When a woman loves the earth, she nourishes it. And earth

[13:55]

nourishes what no one can see. Oh that felt good. Someone just sent me a little book of love poems that they're printing up of mine, some little short ones, and four lines seems about right for a love poem. And so I'll read you this little group of five or six. Does this feel all right for you? I'll just go right through them. Could, could you, could you come and hand this over to me? I think I know most of them. Oh this is kind of interesting, this first one. This is an example of what we're talking about, I think. I'd written it first is this way. I, I love you as I stand at the window. Snow falls on the horses slowly eating, and on the water tank through its darkening life, the horses bend their necks toward the white ground to eat. So I sort of liked it, and I read it to Ruth a couple times, and I thought about five years

[15:05]

ago, and she said to me, this poem is really saved by the line, through its darkening life. Well then I looked at it again, and I, a couple years went by, and I said, something the matter with it? Something the matter with it? Something the matter with this poem? And I decided that the problem is, it begins with, I have loved you. Now what does it say? I love you as I stand at the window. How come I bring an I all the time? Am I talking about love, or the fact that I love? Which one? Don't I want credit for being a good boy? Huh? Uh-oh. That is not a love poem, I'm sorry. So I worked with that a while, and it's a very simple turn there. I have, I love you as I stand at the window. Okay? Really? Really? It's called an assertion, and we have a little center inside of us that says, oh no, you don't.

[16:14]

The only way to have a love poem is to get the I out. And then remember what Basho says, the poem, most poetry, the subject of objective. So I read it to Ruth again, and she said, you know, the line that's no good is that one about the darkening life. Two or three years have passed, we've both gotten smarter. I read it to a friend of mine, and I said, you know, that's exactly right. What am I saying? The water tank is there. What does this mean? A water tank is going through some Jungian change? It's getting dark? I mean, what am I doing putting stuff on a water tank? And he said, well, what was actually going on? And I said, actually what happened is that in winter we don't have any heat, therefore, we turn the water tank upside down. And therefore, it gets dark, you know, there's no water on the top. Well, that's what that one's saying. So here's the way I finished the poem. We have watched four winters from this window. Snow falls on the horses slowly eating, and on the water tank overturned for winter.

[17:20]

The horses bend their necks for the white ground to eat. It only took six years to get that first line changed. All right, here's a couple more. Should I do that one with the dulcimer? No, you've heard it. Yeah, yeah, yeah, here, one more time, yeah. Okay. The good version or the bad version? The, the, the Okay. We have watched four winters from this window. Snow falls on the horses slowly eating, and on the water tank overturned for winter. The horses bend their necks for the white ground to eat. So I wrote my first love poem for her 20 years ago.

[18:25]

Here. Rain has lifted the lake level. It washes the reeds. Slowly the milkweed pods open, the yellow lily pads. Through the mist we see the far shore. The turtle's head rises out over the water. It's a little poem called coverts, bed covers. Shall I do it again? Rain has lifted the lake level. It washes the reeds. Slowly the milkweed pods open, the yellow lily pads. Through the mist both see the far shore. The turtle's head rises out over the water. After trailing their bony legs, the herons dance in their crystal house far up near the clouds.

[19:38]

I need you in sand. Touching your hand, I weep. In another world, I am clear and transparent. This you don't feel sorry for me. Shall I do it again? Every time someone says in the poem you weep, you say, oh gee, that's too bad. After trailing their bony legs, the herons dance in their crystal house far up near the clouds. Oh, there's a little enlightenment in this one. Can you hear it? Yeah. After trailing their bony legs, the herons dance in their crystal house far up near the clouds. I need you in sand. Touching your hand, I weep. In another world, I am clear and transparent.

[20:44]

Here's another one that I did from that same window. There was a study that I had. Snow starts at dawn. By noon, fierce wind lifts the snow. For moments, the trees disappear. The bark on the north side grows entirely white. The bark turned toward us looks darker than before. Fierce snow starts at dawn. Fierce wind by noon lifts the snow. For moments, the trees disappear. Bark on the north side goes entirely white. The bark turned toward us looks darker than before.

[21:53]

Oh, here's a nice little one. It's sort of about making love all night, or at least sort of staying in there, just hanging in there. My Norwegian heritage comes in at last in the first line. The Viking ship sails into the Pearl Harbor. The body meets its wife far out at sea. Its lamp remains lit the whole moisty night. Water pours down faint flute notes in the sound of the water. Once more. The Viking ship sails into the Pearl Harbor.

[23:04]

Oh, here's a nice little one. It's sort of about making love all night, or at least sort of staying in there, just hanging in there. The body meets its wife far out at sea. Its lamp remains lit the whole moisty night. Water pours down faint flute notes in the sound of the water. What do we have, two left here? Oh, this is a good one. It mentions, um, my fierceness when I hold you belongs to the fur logs rolling on the shore. The solidness of your body is the Oregon islands disappearing in surf and mist.

[24:14]

Someone told me they're on Oregon islands, unfortunately. But I covered myself by saying they were disappearing. That one isn't quite done yet. I don't know, because my original one was, my fierceness when I hold you belongs to the fur logs rolling on the shore. That's fine. Then I had your affections coming towards me are the Oregon islands disappearing in surf and mist. So it isn't quite clear, you know, if maybe I put into something solid here so it'd be a little more dramatic when it's finished. What do you think? I kind of like it. That affection's coming towards me. It's hard to know. I'll leave it four or five years and figure it out. And so I asked Ruth what she says, and she said there's something wrong with the word solidness,

[25:22]

but the image is okay. I can find another word. My fierceness when I hold you belong to the fur logs rolling on the shore, and the solidness of your body as the Oregon islands disappearing in surf and mist. Firmness is not bad. That firmness is not bad. Anybody else? I was thinking of Rocky. You were. I'd say to bring in the movie picture. But there's something in there, solid, something strong. Firmness is not bad. I have to think about that. Yeah, you see the audience helps. The bird dips to take some water in its bill.

[26:27]

You know we do not drink only with our hands. When the three worlds are all present, then we receive what we're thirsty for. We are thirsty for the heron and the lake, the touch of the bill on the water. The bird dips to take some water in its bill. You know we do not drink only with our hands. When the three worlds are all present, then we receive what we are thirsty for. We are thirsty for the heron and the lake, the touch of the bill on the water.

[27:37]

Oh, that one again. There are certain times if you... I've worked for many years to go up, then I work a little while to go down, and then there are certain poems in which they tremble a little bit. Can you feel it? Yeah. Going up and going down. Either one's wrong or right. The bird dips to take some water in its bill. You know we do not drink only with our hands. When the three worlds are all present, then we receive what we are thirsty for. We are thirsty for the heron and the lake, the touch of the bill on the water.

[28:47]

It's lovely to hear you listen. Thank you so much. Robert, where does this come from? This is done by a couple of young printers in New York, originally from Madison, Wisconsin, and they love printing. So they go to New York and they've got a little press, and they do small books like this, and the first day they did a little group of poems of mine, and they never had any money, and they had a beautiful cover on it, a beautiful blue. It turned out they'd thrown their blue jeans in the vat. They couldn't afford dye. And so they do these things, and they print a few copies, 160 copies I think they put in. They sell them for $20 a piece, and then they buy some more paper, and they're just doing this one. They sent it to me the other day. So anyone who wants it, I'll give you the price. I'll give you the address and stuff. It isn't worth $20, but eventually I'll finish. I'll fit them, put them in a book, you know, but it's fun to give them in pieces to people who love to see the print. And then when I've done the math,

[29:54]

then I put them into a bigger collection by printers who don't care about. All right. So I think that I should give you a couple. Would it feel all right if I gave you one poem by Antonio Machado and two poems by Rumi, and we'll go to bed? Does that feel all right with you? Let's try it. Antonio Machado, Antonio Machado, born in 1875. Oh, gorgeous Spanish, gorgeous poet. They love him more than Lorca. He is right down the center. Lorca gets very excited, and the Spanish are like that. But Machado, right in the middle, right down there. Once in a while, a little bit of excitement, but generally calm. Toward the end of his life, he fell in love. He married a woman, and she died after two years, and he felt that grief the rest of his life, and he never remarried. But toward the end of his life, he fell in love with a married woman in Madrid. I think she's still alive. And then he wrote this wonderful poem to her.

[30:56]

They used to meet in churches. He wrote a wonderful poem to her. Even though I'm a heretic and a mason, praying with you, what devotion. You know, a mason is a strong word in Spain. Even though I'm a heretic and a mason, praying with you, what devotion. And another one. In words of love, a little bit of exaggeration feel right. It's good knowing that glasses are to drink from. The bad thing is not to know what thirst is for. Mankind owns four things that are no good at sea. Rudder, anchor, oars, and the fear of going down. Mankind owns four things that are no good at sea. Rudder, anchor, oars, and the fear of going down. He has something like 99 poems against narcissism.

[31:58]

Translated about 56 of them since I know the subject well. I'll give you a couple of them. It begins, the eye you see is not an eye because you see it. It's an eye because it sees you. Actually, somebody asked me for a bus poem. They're putting your poems on buses now. Instead of hemorrhoid advertisements, you get a poem. And I gave this one. I think it was in Boston. And so people are going home now in Boston. They look up and it says, the eye you see is not an eye because you see it. It's an eye because it sees you. Tony Mercado. What must they think? So what he's saying is that the more you look at something, the more you do the work of looking at a tree and looking at the world

[33:01]

is the way Anik Matova does, the more you'll see something looking at you. The eye you see is not an eye because you see it. It's an eye because it sees you. Oh, that's nice. Another one. Here's a 99 poems of narcissism. Narcissism is an ancient fault and an ugly fault. Now it's a boring fault too. Nice, huh? Narcissism is an ancient fault and an ugly fault. Now it's a boring fault too. To talk with someone, ask a question first. Then listen. To talk with someone, ask a question first. Then listen. And that's really touching in a way because my generation, and we asked questions and then we'd answer them ourselves. But we asked a question. Now there are many students who don't ask the question. So they don't get in the conversation.

[34:01]

To talk with someone, ask a question first. And then listen. Very nice. Then he has a terrifying idea. This modern narcissist of ours cannot see his face in the mirror because he's become the mirror. And if you look back, the 19th century narcissist was a dandy. He wore vests. And he'd go around looking for pawns so he could see his vest. But at least he looked into a pond. The contemporary narcissist replaces nature with his consciousness. There's a lot of poetry like that in which there's no nature. I mentioned that before. Guess what's in there? Human consciousness. That's it. This modern narcissist of ours cannot see his face in the mirror because he's become the mirror. Now he's tough. All right. I'll give you one poem of his I wanted to give you before we got distracted here.

[35:04]

I was reading him somewhere and every time, I've read him three times now, and every time a man or a woman has come up and said to me, Do you know a noche de cuando dormía? And finally I translated it and I'll give it to you. Last night as I was sleeping, I dreamt marvelous error that a spring was breaking out inside my heart. Along what secret aqueduct or water are you coming to me? Water of a new life that I've never drunk from. Last night as I was sleeping, I dreamt marvelous error that I had a beehive here inside my chest. And the golden bees were making white combs and sweet honey from my old figures.

[36:06]

Last night as I was sleeping, I dreamt marvelous error that a fiery sun was breaking out inside my heart. It was fiery because I felt warmth as from a hearth and it was sun because it gave light. And brought tears to my eyes. Last night as I was sleeping, I dreamt marvelous error that it was God I had here inside my heart. And since we live in a culture in which they told us a machine is a body for 500 years, notice how he apologized. He said, I had this feeling, of course it isn't true. I had this feeling that there was something alive inside of me, but of course it's wrong. We know that's wrong. I just say it because I know it's wrong, but I'll just say it. Gorgeous. And he knows socially he's saying something wrong. So he says, I dreamt I had a beehive here inside my heart, a marvelous error, you know. I really apologize for having crossed my path here. All right.

[37:09]

Now we do two poems of Rumi and we go to bed, huh? How about one poem of Sayo? Even in the mind of the mindless one, grief rises when the heron at dusk lifts from the marsh. Can you feel the two worlds knitted together? Even in the mind of the mindless one, grief rises when the heron lifts from the marsh at dusk. Can you feel the two worlds knitted together? Rumi, born in 1206, greatest poets of the Sufis.

[38:16]

You know, it's all a matter of opposites. As Joe Campbell says, we always want opposites. And the women are either spiritual or sexual. It's clear. They want to know what you are, spiritual or sexual. They wonder about Solomon and all his wives. In the soul of the world, they say, in the body of the world, they say there's a soul and you are that. But they are, but we have ways within each other that will never be said by anyone. This is Rumi. They wonder what you are, spiritual or sexual. They wonder about Solomon and all his wives. In the body of the world, they say there's a soul

[39:26]

and you are that. But we have ways within each other that will never be said by anyone. The clear bead at the center changes everything. There is no edges to my loving now. They're between one mind and another. They say there's a window between one mind and another. But if there's no wall, why bother setting the window frame or the lamp? Once more? The clear bead at the center changes everything. There are no edges to my loving now. They say there's a window that goes between one mind and another. But if there's no wall, why bother setting the window frame or the lamp?

[40:34]

Nice, huh? Very nice, very nice. All right, another one a tiny bit longer. Ah, yes. Of course, I'll do it without the bazooka. It goes like this. The eye is here to see things, but the soul is here for its own joy. Um, the head has one use for loving a true love, the feet to chase after. Mysteries are not to be solved. The eye goes blind when it only wants to know why. A lover is always accused of something, but when he finds his love, all that he lost in the looking comes back, completely changed. Each life, on the way to Mecca, many dangers, blowing wind, thieves, and only camels melt at dink.

[41:40]

Says there are no McDonald's in the spiritual life, huh? On the way to Mecca, many dangers, thieves, blowing wind, and only camels melt at dink. But each lover kisses the black stone there with pure longing, feeling in the surface the touch of the lips he wants. Well, these forms piled up, these forms pile up like new coins, while the real work is being done outdoors by someone digging in the ground. Hmm, gorgeous, isn't it? Notice how he withdraws from the poem at the end. And it was true, he invented the whirling dervishes. And he would go, and when he was doing this, he'd write a poem. It would come out complete, rhyme, meter, form, everything complete. And his students would write it down, and they'd say, you wrote a poem. And he said, oh, really? Big deal. Let's get back. Didn't put that much emphasis on his own poems. Notice what he says at the end. These poems pile up like new coins, while the real work is being done outdoors.

[42:43]

By someone digging in the ground. Last poem, are you ready? Oh, that was great. All right, I'll do the sock poem, and then I'll do the roomie poem. I mentioned Pablo Neruda. I wrote a poem for him. So we should have a poem of his. Pablo Neruda was a cancer. It's one of the jobs of the cancer to go down. Into depression, down. Mustn't fight that. Let it go. He stayed down till he was 35. And if you go through that well, this is what it said. If you go through that well and stay and learn to breathe underwater, then when you come up, you bring a water with which you baptize everything in the world. At the end of his life, he began writing odos elementales, odes to simple things. Odes to a wristwatch.

[43:44]

My wristwatch lies there at night, and these tiny bits of wheels keep biting into time, and bits of black wood fall out of my glove. Ode to a rabbit killed on the road. Ode to the artichoke. Great poem on the artichoke. He starts to open it up like this, and you gradually get pictures of genitals and things like this. And then at the end, he eats the green heart. Ode to air. Ode to fire. Uh, gorgeous. Here's an ode to my socks. A peasant woman gave him a pair of socks because she loved him. She liked him. She gave him a pair of socks. Every time they were blue, there was a single gold thread coming out. Well, he had worked on his language so long. He, with such discipline, he had brought this language forward to touch everything he met, that even when a pair of socks came towards him, he could do it. Pope couldn't write about his socks. The root is a much better poet than Alexander Pope. He couldn't write about his belly hair either, Alexander Pope. All right. Neither could, uh, Milton never mentions the dust in his belly button.

[44:50]

This is a serious flaw. All right, shall we go? Ode to my socks. Maru Mori bought me a pair of socks, which she knitted herself with her own sheepherder's hands. Two socks as soft as rabbits. I slipped my feet into them as though into two cases, knitted with threads of twilight and goatskin. Virulent socks. My feet were two fish made of wool. Two long sharks, sea blue, shopped through by one golden thread. Two immense cannons. Two blackbirds. My feet were honored in this way by these heavenly socks. They were so handsome that for the first time, my feet seemed to me unacceptable. Like two worn out firemen,

[45:55]

firemen unworthy of that glowing fire of those woven socks. Nevertheless, I resisted the mad temptation to save them somewhere. As students collect fireflies, as learned men collect sacred texts, I resisted the mad impulse to put them into a golden cage and give them each day bird seed. And pieces of pink melon. Like the explorers in the jungle who hand over the very rare green deer to the spent and eat it with remorse, I pulled on the magnificent socks and then my shoes. Now the famous turn to the reader. And the moral of my ode is this. Beauty is twice beauty. And what is good is doubly good. When it is a matter of two socks made of wool in winter.

[47:01]

Thank you for asking for that. You notice that every request tonight has just gone just then, right? That's when the audience is serious. They just run the whole thing. And they never make a mistake. So, thank you. Are we ready to quit now? Shall I give you this poem, Rumi? Please, one more. Hmm? Robert? Yes? I wonder if you could do The Man in the Black Coat. I don't know what to do about this. What do you say? Shall we stop now? People can leave if they want. You can go on if you want. All right. I'll do The Man in the Black Coat and Rumi and then we'll stop. Robert, I can't believe you anymore. You're learning. Here's a question because sometimes it's, it's, people can take in different amounts of poetry depending on how much your stomach can grind up. And some people get a full stomach early on.

[48:10]

And I don't want to push those. And I don't want to believe that you have to stay here out of politeness to me. I enjoy it once I get going. So it's a question. And you have to help and I'll have to help. So I'll help. End. After two poems. This is the poem called The Man in the Black Coat. And then, and then I'll do the Rumi. All right. This is a poem. It came from Minnesota. Jinya, are you there? Snow, she knows. In Minnesota, snow comes down from Alaska. It's for 400 miles an hour and then it stops six feet from your house. I've known it since I was a boy. So I wrote this poem. And I don't know, since we won't have time to read this poem again, I'll just tell you that I read this poem first in San Jose and a woman said to me,

[49:11]

who is the man in the black coat? I said, I have no idea. She said, that's outrageous. You wrote the poem. I said, well, you must have gone to a high school where they told you you could understand the poem. I said, I not only don't know who the man in the black coat is, I don't know if it's a good idea that he didn't climb the hill. Maybe it is, maybe not. Maybe it's about our interior political thing. Maybe we don't have courage anymore than we used to. Maybe that's why we let the Japanese Toyotas run over us. Or maybe when Reagan says we're going to invade El Salvador now, we will say, no, we climbed a hill like that. Not going to do it. We don't know what will happen. I wrote the poem only five or six years ago. I don't know what the image means. Those great sweeps of snow that stopped suddenly six feet from the house.

[50:11]

Thoughts that go so far. The boy gets out of high school and reads no more books. The son stops calling home. The mother puts down her rolling pin and makes no more bread. And the wife looks at her husband one night at a party and loves him no more. And the energy leaves the wine and the minister falls leaving the church. It will not come closer. And the one inside moves back and the hands touch nothing and are safe. And the father grieves for his son, Mrs. Lincoln. And the father grieves for his son and will not leave the room where the coffin stands. He turns away from his wife and she sleeps alone. And the sea lifts and falls all night. And the moon goes on through the unattached heavens alone. And the toe of the shoe pivots in the dust.

[51:15]

And the man in the black coat turns and goes back down the hill. No one knows why he came or why he turned away and did not climb the hill. So before we part, let me tell you again how moved and honored I am to be speaking to you in this community. These communities are infinitely valuable. We are going down this way, you know. We're not going this way or this way. We're going this way. But as Robinson Jefferson said, corruption is not compulsory. The culture is sinking with Charlie's Angels and all the rest. Sinking very fast. But then we need discrimination as in the fairy tales. Separating the black grains from the white. It isn't necessary for you to go with it.

[52:17]

In fact, if you go with it, we won't have anything to pass on to our children and grandchildren. So I like very much what you're doing. Here's a poem now by Rumi. Today, like every other day, we wake up empty and scared. Today, like every other day, we wake up empty and scared. Don't open the door to your study and begin reading. Today like every other day, we wake up empty and scared. Don't open the door to your study and begin reading.

[53:27]

Don't open the door to your study and begin reading. Don't open the door to your study and begin reading.

[53:58]

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