Now it so happened that in the land of Aram there lived a man whose name was unknown. From his earliest years he lived in agony, unable to know himself yet acquainted with every other. Even those that he called friends were unable to admit his existence for one reason alone: no description could be pinned to his frame.

In the land of Aram, which was a grey place and much given to silence, it came to pass that this Man upon his time-bound walk found a strange figure pacing back and forth, who was called a poet by those who knew him. And the Man, recognising him by his eyes, which laughed while his face was set in bitterness, hailed him and bid him attend.

‘Good sir,’ he greeted the Man, ‘I can no more attend you than I can pull my attention from the grandeur of my life. My woes are great and my travails have passed understanding. Would you hear my torment?’ And with these and other words he besought the Man, but nought came of it, for into his speech the Man brought the sharpness of his sword, and the poet was dumb.

‘You who speak, you know nothing of sorrow. My life has been a rending of impossibilities. I am unknown, and no description may be brought to me, and yet you might write my biography facilely. My mind is full, but I do not know myself as you do. Do not tell me of your torment; tell me of mine.’

To his importuner, the poet spoke nothing, weeping for the loss of his voice, and the Man continued on his way in the land of Aram.