The fire is gone now. And I am horribly cold. I really ought to drag myself outside. But then there would be the sun. I am afraid I waste the light, on the paintings And when writing these words. We die. We die. We die. We die, rich with lovers...... Tastes we have swallowed. Bodies we have entered. And swum up like rivers. Fears we have hidden in. Like this wretched cave. I want all this marked on my body. We are the real countries. Not the boundaries drawn on maps...... I know you will come. And carry me out into the palace of winds. This is all I have wanted. To walk in such a place with you...... .......with friends. An Earth without maps. The lamp has gone out...... .......and I am writing in the darkness. For the heart is an organ of fire Betrayals in war are childlike compared with our betrayals during peace. New lovers are nervous and tender, but smash everything- for the heart is an organ of fire.