For a long time he was a poet.
called him a poet and
women did too.
Surely he was a poet
more than anyone I knew.
Even the pigs and the boars
grunted him poet.
He died returning from a distant land.
In his hut there was not one word of poetry.
Was he a poet who didn't write?
So a poet wrote a poem for him.
As soon as the poem was written,
the wind blew it away.
Then all the poems of the East and the West, old and new,
flew away, swish, swish,
every one followed suit.
from The Three Way Tavern
trans. Clare You and Richard Silberg