Scribbling Poetry Under a Canopy of Magenta Flowers

Frozen in time, each moment a still frame.  Dreamlike statuesque,  I slumber, reaching for an ethereal ghost (she is never really there).  A mystical awakening to auditory premonitions.  I can interpret the thoughts of countless past lifetimes, yet in my own I am helpless.  My inheritance tragically bestowed, I discard everything but my humble cloak.  I go out like Champlain on a patache discovering Mount Desert Island.  Pemetic peaks stretch across horizons saturated in lush indigo.  Oh beautiful Acadia, how the Abnaki must have adored you!  Startled, you step upon the sacred brittle bones of wolf, muskrat, and beaver.  This is not sacrilegious, just a misunderstanding-you must apologize!  Head south under swarms of glistening stars, stretching past the equator into the merciless unknown of the southern continent.   Here, everything is mystical and magical-luminous.  In Lunahuana, I awaited you in the plaza de armas.  While the inhabitants stumbled drunk on sweet red wine, I scribbled poetry under a canopy of flowers glowing brilliant magenta.  In the dust and sun, the Andes began to disintigrate into the banks of the Canete.  It was here at the river bank that I began to think of you in an infinite way.  Now I know you go on forever, and forever will you be.