I lie amidst some melancholy glooms,
arms spread, eyes closed, ready to experience it all.
My skin touches: the dry and barren earth,
a patch of which I have chosen to lay myself upon.
It has been baked bare by the sun,
for God knows how long; it has been naked yet strong.
Toughened, perhaps, because its cracks and crevices,
split by many blows, have been drying back each time,
with the help of the sun.
How calm I lay, a comfort I cannot obtain
elsewhere, in time, space, or the fullness of thought.
Except on this distant field, where I forgot, forgot, forgot.
Everything tangible, material, sensible to man,
the life-long reservoir of experience and strange wealth of knowledge,
flattened to the ground, where it melts and seeps through.
My fingers claw and graze at the forfeiture,
but nothing is lost, I concede to this confiscation.
And return to the world what it had first handed me.