War Path, by Alfred Jacob Miller
I have no vocation but this,
and no need to touch every rose and thornpoint.
You are seeing through my eyes
and tasting with my tongue.
Why sell bitterness? Why do anything?
When you breakfast at the king's table,
there is no appetite for lunch.
I do not complain or brag about ascetic practices.
I would explain, but words will not help,
how there is nothing to grieve.
If you have no trace of this recklessness,
tell me your state.
I have forgotten how to say how I am.
The sun has already shone today.
Why should I describe the moon
coming up over sleeping quarters?