Each
of us is a fountain
lit by moonbeams.
No
one
of
us
has much
more weight
than ony other.
We are like countless roots
in fields of clover
or specks of dust that go spinning
in a sunbeam
—there’s
a
flash
of
light
but
not much there.
Each of us is but a hair
upon a shaggy
shambling
beast
we call the tribe
or people.
No
one of us stands
as a steeple
over any
others.
There are no gifts as rare
as any treasured thing
that anyone
can hold
within his hand.

—From Josephine: The Mouse Singer (1978), adapted from Franz Kafka