Wild Honey Smells Of Freedom

A Loss, But Who Still Mourns The Breath Of One Woman, Or Laments One Wife? Though My Heart Never Can Forget, How, For One Look, She Gave Up Her Life.

You Will Hear Thunder And Remember Me, And Think: She Wanted Storms. The Rim Of The Sky Will Be The Colour Of Hard Crimson, And Your Heart, As It Was Then, Will Be On Fire.

And This Tenderness Was Not Like That Which A Certain Poet At The Beginning Of The Century Called True And, For Some Reason, Quiet. No, Not At All— It Rang Out, Like The First Waterfall, It Crunched Like The Crust Of Bluish Ice And It Prayed With A Swanlike Voice, And It Broke Down Right Before Our Eyes.

I Myself, From The Very Beginning, Seemed To Myself Like Someone's Dream Or Delirium Or A Reflection In Someone Else's Mirror, Without Flesh, Without Meaning, Without A Name. Already I Knew The List Of Crimes That I Was Destined To Commit.

Hands, Matches, An Ashtray. A Ritual Beautiful And Bitter.