Great Pan is not dead;
he simply emigrated
     to India.
Here, the gods roam freely,
disguised as snakes or monkeys;
every tree is sacred
and it is a sin
to be rude to a book.
It is a sin to shove a book aside
                     with your foot,
a sin to slam books down
        hard on a table,
a sin to toss one carelessly
        across a room.
You must learn how to turn the pages gently
without disturbing Sarasvati,
without offending the tree
from whose wood the paper was made.

          Which language
          has not been the oppressor’s tongue?
          Which language
          truly meant to murder someone?
          And how does it happen
          that after the torture,
          after the soul has been cropped
          with the long scythe swooping out
          of the conqueror’s face –
          the unborn grandchildren
          grow to love that strange language.