So you are back,
o loneliness.
O desolate prison
of all idealists.
O cold bosom
of
all those who know
how to love purely.
O retched haven
of all those who
still nurse
a healthy conscience
within themselves.
O devouring mother.
O beguiling father.
O unforgiving God.
O poor, poor third
world country.
So you are back to me.
So you are back.
O accursed
unchosen
home.
July 1996