When I write of love,
When I speak of love,
it is like, I was blessed,
from above.
For I have had hardships,
and more one-sided flips,
than contact, with your lips.
It is like an apple in a tree,
which is just out of reach,
I can see it with me,
just as sweet as a peach.
But until I can climb to the tallest branch,
I must I must grab hold of the bark,
and with each step, my wound will stanch,
and I will pull myself from the dark.

I have shared in my time the human illusions,
the muddy foolishness and craving passions.
But something years ago pulled me out of the tide-wash;
I cannot even pretend to be one of the people.
I stand here with open eyes in the clear air growing old.
Watching with interest and considerable nausea,
this time of the demagogues, the shifts of power,
and the pitiless wars that prepare for the fall.
But also the enormous unhuman beauty of things;
rock, sea and stars; fool-proof and permanent.

But as for my children, I would have them
keep their distance from the thickening center,
corruption never has been compulsory.
When the cities lie at the monster's feet
there are left the mountains.

Thoughts of you
knock on my head
pleading for remembrance.
Doesn't my heart know
that forgetting you
will be the cure
to everything?