The thing that is believed is a reality.
Time is the metre, memory the only plot.
Peel your own image from the mirror. Sit. Feast on your life.
Damn wind shift sudden as a woman mind.
The personal vocabulary, the individual melody whose metre is one's biography, joins in that sound, with any luck, and the body moves like a walking, a waking island.
The sigh of History rises over ruins, not over landscapes, and in the Antilles there are few ruins to sigh over, apart from the ruins of sugar estates and abandoned forts.