I dream of red roses, to sleep in a bed of rose petals, like an Indian, mythical potentate who waits for his favourite concubine to come to his bed. But I know as I wait the petals will be squashed cling to my body an itch and my bed will stink of decay. I’ll drive a motorbike across the Alps, but can’t smell the edelweiss for petrol fume, the cows will go on grazing as I was not there. The lakes in Swiss are cold hotels are expensive. But if I have a bath in Ganges I find myself amongst corpses floating downstream to an oceanic heaven. There is in India a temple for rats, I like to go there and cure my fear of rodents. Red roses, thorn from the bush, their freshness only last five minutes or so and dry petals blow in the wind. Jasmine flowers are as enchanting as virgins and only open up at night, but I will not change them for my almond tree; a woman is only a virgin once while my tree flowers every spring.
