I read... I read... I read these books -- I never find the end
The moral seems to me to be -- the place where I begin
If "Life's" a game -- the object is? The rules are they the same?
Like pieces play the chess board -- is how we play the game?
Give the pawn up for the King, whose sacrifice is me?
Why should I live forever? Why should I even be?
These books are odd, they open up, but then they close again
Too much for comprehension, too much for just one man
A single page is all I read, it beckons me, it calls
"Come in and take a look at me, I've broken down these walls."
Tomorrow I return there -- to gape at what I've found
The keeper I find nowhere, the walls stand straight and sound
So to some ancient city, instead I tread and go
And there the keeper's waiting, another one to show
"Don't worry 'bout the last one -- this one is better yet"
Like treasures I remember, and cities I forget
Like visions in the desert, and cities that await
Drink freely from my fountain, but open not the gate
Like pages seem like footprints. Like footprints follow first
Like footprints of the stranger -- whose last words were "I thirst".
The Alpha and Omega, beginning and the end
Like books follow the stranger, and books where I begin,.
G. Jacobs, July 17, 1994