Exile, Self-Imposed                                            

            I rued the journey
            Fearing what I dared to find

            At the outposts
            Where I set up camp
            The earth accepted my disquiet,
            The skies closed in
            The way I’d felt your hair upon my face,
            And every freely taken step
            Grew heavy
            As I fixed my wayward lights
            Upon the rapier truth:

            That knowledge would be left to rot
            Unless it led to power

            All the more I yearned
            For orchard fruit and the 
            Embrace of harvests fled,
            Which both of us mistook for


            Emanuel E. García, A Deeper Symmetry2014