Maybe I’ve been hanging out too much with disturbed and deranged people, am now slightly at a loss over a simple man with a good heart.

But how I love it! So I feel that urge again … to read a poem.

Stretched out,

Stone made of noon,

half-open eyes whose whiteness turns to blue,

half-ready smile.

Your body rouses, you shake your lion’s mane.

Again lying down,

a fine striation of lava in the rock,

a sleeping ray of light.

And while you sleep I stroke you, I polish you,

slim axe,

arrow with whom i set the night (or the morning) on fire.

The sea fighting far off with its swords and feathers.

(Octavio Paz)