Alas, no rest the guilty find
   from the pursuing Furies of the mind!
   —Thomas Broughton

                     Fugue

And when in his wanderings he lost his pen,
lost the battles, polemics, books he'd planned,
mislaid the triumphs and troubles with women,
drained all ambition of hand or brain or gland,
when he stood naked at the gates of Eden,
when nothing was left but a handful of sand,
he finally allowed all words to disband.

And when he allowed all thoughts to disband
and relished the course of every grain of sand,
when he was naked and lived in Eden,
cured of ambition of hand or brain or gland,
released from troubles and triumphs with women,
reprieved from battles, polemics, books he'd planned,
somewhere in his wanderings he lost his pen.

                                    —Enriqueta