The justification of myself is complete.
I believe in myself, and this belief is sweet
Against my tongue, in my thoughts, tomorrow and today,
The whole world conspires to feed me and show me
I am the author, the actor, the audience, and the play.
If I don’t get it, the world—not me—is guilty of delay.
The forest exists, because I am the tree,
And the tree grew, and knew
To grow into a forest, flowering around you.
Can you point to some other tree
To prove that the whole forest is not me?
I am the whole forest; I am not a part
Of anything. Love, love me with every trick used by art,
Faking the real, exposing the fake—my whole heart
Is every single piece of the world, and more,
More faithful than the wife, more beautiful than the whore,
More open than the mind, which opens, closes, decorates, the door.
Here’s my taste, my sight, my judgment. Mozart, listen to me! I will soar
For the sake of you. The poem is the world. This is what the world is for.