These are the good days,
the days of hunger,
of cold night;
when the air in the sky
is the frost breath of your lungs.
These are the good days,
the days of numb;
when the sights, sounds, and pleasures of the World
blend into a fading echo,
and the only thing that exists
is your dream.
These are the good days;
when your dream gains such sharpness,
such pure and honest luminosity,
you grow moth wings to soar to it—
desperately, obsessively,
burning body and soul alike
in combustive winds.
These are the good days;
when everyone’s forgotten you,
and you’ve forgotten being forgotten,
and the vastness of world is centralized
right there in the tiny space
that is your workroom, your bedroom,
your chapel and penitentiary.
These are good days—be grateful.
For when they end—and they will
end—and you have triumphed
over the darkness in yourself,
you will sit comfortably atop a hill,
and overlook
the savage wilderness of former days.
A tearful smile will form along your face,
and you will mourn.
