Better a jungle in the head <br />than rootless concrete. <br />Better to stand bewildered <br />by the fireflies' crooked street; <br /> <br />winter lamps do not show <br />where the sidewalk is lost, <br />nor can these tongues of snow <br />speak for the Holy Ghost; <br /> <br />the self-increasing silence <br />of words dropped from a roof <br />points along iron railings, <br />direction, in not proof. <br /> <br />But best is this night surf <br />with slow scriptures of sand, <br />that sends, not quite a seraph, <br />but a late cormorant, <br /> <br />whose fading cry propels <br />through phosphorescent shoal <br />what, in my childhood gospels, <br />used to be called the Soul.<br /><br />Derek Walcott<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/pentecost-4/
