Night falls on the street of sour oranges.
The street of the soul’s accountant,
The man with so many alter egos
He forgot the name he had been born with.
This simple unremarkable street
Was all he required,
More marvellous than any argosy
Undertaken by Vasco da Gama,
He loathed the very idea of travel,
Scorned the vulgarity of packing a suitcase,
Despised the mindlessness
Of those who must displace themselves
In order to see and feel.
One city, one unicorn forest.
One language, finite yet infinite.
To walk the length of this street
Is to circumambulate the world.
Each step is a poem, a breath.
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