I march with my face turned windward,
In my pocket – a page from a book;
I will go where Fate walks unhindered
Amid birdsong and silvering brooks.
Rejecting both mankind and beast,
In the jungle, a wigwam my home,
Alone with one God I will feast,
One I will create of my own.
– 0 –
This is a loose translation from a Russian poem the author and provenance of which I have not been able to identify. It was one of my father’s favourites and I sometimes wonder if he wrote it – it’s exactly the sort of thing he would write, or perhaps it’s just a philosophy he always followed.