I know an enchanted place
where bouquets of words
grow wild and profuse.
I can choose as many as I like
in any color or fragrance
even some that do not really exist.
The collecting is effortless
as if done for me;
All I have to do is think myself there
a self-hypnosis
that takes me nowhere
and everywhere…
It might be the same place
where Keats heard “unheard melodies”
or El Greco had a vision of Toledo…
Reflection causes my feet to tremble
at the garden’s gate
I feel as blind and awestruck
as Paul on the way to Damascus