Portraits – The Man Who Had No Gift for Speech

You could read in his eyes
that every fox ought to be afraid of him.

On his legs — a few bite scars
and a strength that did not hide.

In his hands there was always room
for a little more will to clench into a fist,

for one more heavy blow,
for many more handshakes,
which he never did understand.

He had lived by now for more than
half a century without anyone asking him to speak
(not that he couldn’t pronounce words) —
he knew that this art,
so praised by the weak,
was of no use to him.

And in the middle of a speech heard by chance, and at the end of
an overheard conversation, when he felt his heart
beat a little faster and carry the warm blood to the far ends of his body,
he was convinced that this was almost as healthy
as a long afternoon walk.