May you be a toad in wintery -sleep,
A wild river enclosed in an earthen pot,
Or an ardent cave waiting for Godot,
Wearing a loneliness' cloth.
You may poke me of my whereabouts,
Of my mystic glamour, peeping doubts,
As if the language of a desert or forest,
Or heavy weight of a forlorn widow's breast.
You may assume my remedy with wine and woman,
Or a hubris' pleasure with yes-party -fans,
Or feasting eyes in the nude junctions.
Yet, yet dearest friend,
Whether prepared or untrained,
In your ship on the wide sea,
Your soul's captain loneliness be.
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