Reason is always defensive. I cannot say anything against you. The world is the wolf. God is the lamb. I can't do anything. I'm smiling as much as I can. You think you need to know something else--- but you look in my eye and then you see I am what you need to know, not my poetry, which is always for somebody else, as flawed civilization is. Being the beloved, I am defensive reason, the passive and the remarkable, dwelling beneath your initiative--- which you now see as wrong. Socratic reason is passive. You detect I am the lyre, not the song. I wait here passively until the melody moves my strings and passing joy listens and someone else sings. It is what we are escaping that is cruel and vast, future cruelty, sneering certainty, the rude goodbye of the past. The portion which is good is infinitesimal and cannot fight. I cannot do anything at all. I hope you will not be leaving. Beauty understood is the only good. I fear the certainty of deceiving. This is why I am lying still. This is why my smile is scared, not moving or thinking or believing.