House of Language

I have no other brothers but poets. Those
with whom I share the good and the evil of this world.
Rare joys and incurable grief. My pain
and the pain of another. Human suffering and sleeplessness.
Masters who keep their skill a secret,
and their even more able apprentices. Minters
of false sovereigns that are yet worth
more than gold. Those who smile
with a tear in their eye. Who sing
of those they have never seen, and sleep
pressing to their breast or burning cheeks books
written by those they will never see or meet.
Bearers of light, knights of lustful longing,
boys who will never grow up… I have
no other brothers but poets. Those who turn
the light on and off in the universal twilight.
Who lead on and seduce, without knowing
where they go. Who steal to be able to give.
Who fight the two-headed dragon of tenderness
and cruelty within. Who cannot be touched,
but are easily hurt. Of pale skin, blood
underneath it, as in any other human being.
Better and worse than any other human being.
Victim and evildoer rolled into one.
Dark angels of doom and self-destruction,
hungry for the glory and power they despise.
Paragons of virtue and master scoundrels.
Who die while they are living, but live on
even after they are dead.