Retreating before us, like some mirage,
Were cities, miraculously fair.
Under our feet the mint grass spread,
The birds were following our tread,
The fishes came to a river bend,
And to our eyes the sky was open
Behind us our fate was groping,
Like an insane man with a razor in his hand.
She was, and remains, my ideal woman
Don’t hate your body because it’s too fat or too thin; hate it because it’s a prison of flesh and its existence is meaningless.