Who is that strange creature?

Who are you, man?

The raiment of your soul

is a robe of starlight,

but the clothes on your body

are rags.

Your family hungers, and you.

When there is a piece of decent bread

on your bare table, you celebrate.

What you cannot gain

for yourself and yours,

You want for the wide world.

You are free to enter heaven,

but knock on a great man’s door

and he has you driven away.

You while time with God,

but speak to a gentleman

and he cuts you short.

Some call you The Apostle,

and others say you are a damned criminal.

Who are you? Your parents,

are they proud of you, or do they redden

at the mention of your name?

Were you born on sack or velvet?

Here is the story,

the life, of this man—

If I were to paint it,

I would show a brook

which erupts from an unknown fastness,

cuts across a dark, narrow canyon

filled with crows,

and stumbles on endless stones,

moaning in eternal pain.