A haven of magic, we were told
Made of nectar and twilight roses,
Of tenderness and gold.
In it, they said, was
The panacea for the wounds of man.
We wanted it, but didn't get it.
Back to our hopes, miserable and unfulfilled.
Where is this land?
Are we to see it or
is it to stay enveloped, unattainable
Agitating inside us only
A numbed yearning?
Within closed lips?
The millions are
A torrent of desire,
And a dream of flame.
Open the gates for thousands
Of exhausted victims are screaming.