A life of fame is crude ambition,
It’s not what elevates and lifts.
No need to archive each revision,
And tremble over manuscripts.
The goal of art is one’s self-giving,
And not the racket of success.
To be a fable with no meaning
Retold by all is shamefulness.
Don’t imitate—imposture’s tasteless,—
But learn to live, so, after all,
You’ll draw the love from open spaces
And overhear the future’s call.
And leave omissions to be captured
In destiny, not text, and strive
To mark across the margins chapters
And scenes from an entire life.
And dip your body, let it graze
Obscurity and hide your tracks,
Like countrysides hide in the haze,
Where everything appears pitch-black.
Let others trail you to the finish,
In step, wherever you have passed.
But you, yourself, must not distinguish
Defeats and victories amassed.
Save face, persistently and wholly,
And never deviate or bend,
But be alive, alive and only,
Alive and only to the end.