The world is full of blood-thirsty persecutors,
but the worst persecution is
when you are not hunted,
but still act like a lost wild animal
tracked by an invisible hunter: when
you sit in your studio drinking coffee
or stretching bored in the office,
when even the fanciest cigar in your mouth
cannot relieve you from a dreadful sense of guilt
as if someone has a grip on you, making you
perspire with deadly fear, wishing, either you
didn't know who you were or could
throw yourself from the ninth floor.
This persecution is the most horrifying flight
from oneself, the most fatal capture.
Nothing helps, even though all doors are open
and all guns at your disposal, when you sit
amid black night or clear day
unable to move from the deadly fear
of an unknown, ineffable guilt.