I would not even know who lives in me,
Who breathes through me, who feeds me,
Who actually carries whom,
What it desires, where it steers,

If I had not looked into the soul.
Not an enemy’s, a friend’s, but my own.
Not so lost after all,
But not beautiful either —
The one I must tend.

Whether I speak or listen,
Write a verse or read —
I stop it,
OR I move by it,
As I accept the word,
OR I do not let it through.