The Guardian Saturday Poem
King Lear
It does not keep you safe; it does not
give you the words you need, it does not
tell you how much to pay, how much
they owe you. It will not work, like egg-yolks,
to cool the numb heat of lost eyes and treacheries.
It does not surrender to the reasonable
case for not risking everything to keep
secrets and rivals, the white line in the tickling
membrane of freedom. It will not keep you dry: rain,
like crying, sinks down to the bone.
It will not stop: not when you sleep, not
when you wake, not when you want it to,
not when you want to settle with the mirror
of your shame. Never. It will not. Never.
Technorati tags: Rowan Williams, poetry
