Light, that infrequent visitor. I owe no man and no woman a single debt, nor their gods and ghosts. This makes me happy. This lifts the weight of things from my heart. A debt, a guilt, an owing—these are the sicknesses of the herd. I dare not for them, their directionless surety, their gay blindness; I have my own bliss, and it suits me. Their wool I cannot wear, their staff I cannot rend, their mores I cannot anchor, and as for their woes, their self-created and blinding woes—and wounds, I cannot care. Jubilee! Rain has washed my scales and clearly do I see! Cold skin and heights avail to we sinless ones, and warmth just further upward. Radiant solar life: sun and rain and cold heights, these are happiness. Out of the depths must the highest rise The mores of men the sheep’s disguise The shepherd guides the guilty grinding their bones over small hills amongst trees wilting Nevermind the mores of man and nevermind the shepherds’ plan Again from cold to colder and through to warmth and solar A brief hour of fearless feelings kill the coward and sheepish healings My own sea might I drink up and spit it’s salt and fill my cup Nevermind the mores of man repeat with me: I can, I can!