What kind of knowledge are we talking about?
The kind that wells up in the throat
And crawls, trembling, to get out?
Or is the knowledge like a beam,
Or is it the knowledge that comes at night
Of a vastness that springs past a vastness,
The ground of darkness and light,
Or the knowledge of holy men
Who put their light into words
Like capsules that heat will dissolve
Beneath the down of gray birds?
A man is no more than a half,
He gathers the seeds of a culture,
He grasps at the world with his claws,
Lamb, lion, aurochs or vulture.
Do not grow wild like weeds
Seeking the sustenance of earth,
All of its tumultuous contractions
Of passionate convulsions and birth.
From your father take the wind
That seeks in the precipice and mountain,
From the natural field of your mother
Take the water that seeps from its fountain..