Dark eyed,

O woman of my dreams,

Ivory sandaled,

There is none like thee among the dancers,

None with swift feet.

I have not found thee in the tents,

In the broken darkness.

I have not found thee at the well-head

Among the women with pitchers.

Thine arms are as a young sapling under the bark;

Thy face as a river with lights.

White as an almond are thy shoulders;

As new almonds stripped from the husk.

They guard thee not with eunuchs;

Not with bars of copper.

Gilt turquoise and silver are in the place of thy rest.

A brown robe, with threads of gold woven in patterns, has though

gathered about thee,

O Nathat-Ikanaie, “Tree-at-the-river.”

As a rillet amng the sedge are thy hands upon me;

Thy fingers a frosted stream.

Thy maidens are white like pebbles;

Their music about thee!

There is none like thee among the dancers;

None with swift feet.

Yay, Ezra Pound. Did you write this on a spring day such as this one that we are rejoicing in today, this beautiful April day with the sky a happy blue, and the wind with the flowing tails of its skirt twirling carefree-ly in a sambaish dance?

Did you know that I quoted this poem on Thursday, May 10th of year 2001? Before quoting this poem, I write:

“I met an interesting character today… a very infatuative one and, and… Italian philosopher-to-be.

Passions sweeping me off my feet, it was bizarre. I am excited…”

My guess is that the charming Italian philosopher-to-be, aka “apotos”, quoted me this poem at our first encounter. I’d like to be a tree-at-the-river…

Ah, what a beautiful spring day, which we awaited for so long!

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