THE POET AND HIS LOVE

She was the seductive oasis in which my cares sought to drown themselves, a mirage of love in a desert of boredom, a promise of delight in an Occidental hell. In her I sensed my genesis, the lure of desire. She unveiled me from behind a cloak of indifference, brought me face-to-face with myself, and then left me to rot in the turbulent wake of her swift departure.

So I demanded her love, the love she had brought upon me without requital. I cursed fate for having given her to someone else, for having taken her away when I most needed her. All men became potential enemies, all women - iconoclasts!

From the depths of sadness I grew anew, a brother to sorrow. I courted loneliness through the darkest streets, the most pedestrian pavements, the loudest days, the bleakest nights, and shared my shattered dreams with her. Nowhere was dangerous enough, nowhere the promise of consolation. But I pieced my heart together with obdurate pride and, focusing on other things, it slowly mended.

Now I am well enough to resume my former life, oblivious of love's enticements.