Today, let our pursuits be anything
but trivial.
Poetry can twist and shout, cajole and flay;
not ours.

This time let it be the small-minded
spirit of self-interest
that is homeless. Should it not be 
the most generous genius
settled at the heart of our craft?

The hour has come
the soul has waited long enough.
We breathe the air 
of Buddha, of Socrates:
Acting accordingly our art becomes great.

This instant let us recognise
our own strength and therefore 
take the most gentle care
of all we hold in our hands.