On this pulped plant, via mind, Through blue ink I will let explode All my dampening suppressions, The desperations, that distractions cannot veil Of lovers locked away by livelihood worry, Of passion parted by duty. At my desk my brain I train To poise in concentration and vacate avocations. Since four years with melancholic eyes Through a glass window Resting on their strangling shelfs They have watched me work; with hopes in their pages, Esperance in their plots, constancy in their themes To be read again by me, Their Prince Charming, long anticipated; Watching the argil on the wheel Struck by the hard hands of drudgery. The unformed urn, cracks at points But ceases not to spin The phantasied rendezvous, Spans later, then wearing a qualified coat, The gates of the cupboard open.... The mouth-watering scent of old parchment- The patience of those held back days. The cupboard's harassing keys Lie in front of me, Yet, to open it, my hands are tied By deathless devious devoir. Someday, surely, will rise The horse of an awaiting white sun Upon which I will ride And rescue my sweethearts, Those daughters of champion wordsmiths.