Not understanding one thing shows that nothing is understood.
Which means that I know nothing about your Belovedhood.
Knowledge is search; search, the denial that the Beloved is here.
Knowledge is the stock-piling of the means of terror and fear.
I’m not blaming the knowledge wallas. How could they not be blind, deaf and dumb
Bought up as they were on the big dividend doctrine of, Kingdom, here I come?
Knowledge was really a game the beloved invented
For us – a time-pass after our being fed and tented.
Time is the turn of the sea-tides, the pause between inbreath and outbreath,
The blowing and the staining of a new bubble in the bubble-shop of death.
Where now are all my former companions of sea travel
And endless arguments and songs that came out of a barrel?
Since virtue belongs to God, sin is the only means I have by which
To distinguish between myself and other bubbles in the ditch.
Without the error of your dreaming, O beautiful Dreamer,
I would never have needed, and found such a charming Redeemer.
The new kings strut across the old stage brandishing the same old rusty sword.
The new singers sing the same old songs urging, pleading the same old reward.