After the night of meetings ends,
The empty demijohns of wine stare, sightless, Like green, blue, white and black eyes, And ice covers the mouth of satisfied desire,

Should we blame the poor crazed poet If he awakes reciting verse as if the night With its meetings between the lines And line breaks has never ended?

Note: Last night I went to my first mehfil in New York put together by Anand, where I drank wine, recited poetry - my tongue tripping over rhymes and line breaks, met numerous cool cats, and was really tired by the time I returned to my garret. If I could, I would want to do that every night.