"Commandment-Withdrawal" (Pessoa XIV.)

The wounded self protests from night till morn,
from early light to latest, not to know
the world beyond its little room & born
to whist & echo, battens in that glow.

For i have sweated in its steely grasp,
nor far from edged demesnes have dared to stray.
The Wanderer of Wastes is but a mask
too poignantly betrayed one hapless day.

Clown of a mind to understand the whole
sham shindig, i have watched no lamp attract
inquiry so mothly doomed as soul
survival. What falls up, what accidents detract,

and stories tell it not. The lightless stretch
on Royal wears the skid marks of my outreach.