The man in the tower
Hallucinating toreador
Lies beneath the skin of the water
Time softens and runs like a sore
Now whispering to his servant
"My Gala, bright bee
Calling my name
Chanting like quatre clocks"
And breaking through the surface
He rose up to meet her
His divine apparition
His subconscious obsession
His persistent memory
And the young man wept
A jeweled tear for his master
Victorious in the rapture
(For Dali - 1989)
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