In my memories I live in a thousand countries counted by unnumbered years,
Book spread they ring of an imagination redolent with vitality
Touched with the reality of tumescent afternoons
When in Malia I kissed the creten-Spanish sun,
In Graz when I sped the Slovanik mountains,
Paris, when I lost my heart on the Seine on a non taken ride
And in Normandy when with family I bestrode the harvester
When I sneezed with the corn's blossom.
All these places punctured the wells of being
And made me inflate with bodily pride.
No more they seek me, or I them; my disposition tells me the lies
Of how they betrayed the coursing of the veins
And left my mind an empty space where everything I know has died.