paintings and on writing these words.
We die. We die rich with lovers and
tribes, tastes we have swallowed,
bodies we have entered and swum up
like rivers, fears we have hidden in
like this wretched cave.
I want all this marked on my body.
We are the real countries, not the
boundaries drawn on maps with the
names of powerful men.
I know you will come and carry me
out into the palace of winds, the rumors
of water. That's all I've wanted -
to walk in such a place with you,
on earth without maps.
The English Patient