The Swan

'I remember the maiden slave, wasted, soul sick, trudging through muddy streets, forever seeking the lost coconut palms of splendid, tender Africa beneath tears of immense and misted memory.' A liberal interpretation: from The Swan, 'The Flowers of Evil', by Charles Baudelaire the city changes just as quickly the landscape and purity of youth city blocks or small town streets of the wistful wondering past there, in the sunrise, was a pulse there in the dawn was the swan bereft of blue dream and cloud captured, held in ageless grace but time always curses memory and whoever has lost their place must sink like a damning weight to the river's dark soft summons longing does not die like cities do though I stand before the grave my lovers lost and youth and hope I still dream of my tropic home