Zen in the Art of Writing

And did not let them sense

My buried Troy;

For if they had, what scorns,

Derision, jokes;

I sealed my City deep

From all those folks;

And, growing, dug each day. What did I find

And given as gift by Homer old and Homer blind?

One Troy? No, ten!

Ten Troys? No, two times ten! Three dozen!

And each a richer, finer, brighter cousin!

All in my flesh and blood,

And each one true.

So what's this mean?

Go dig the Troy in you

Go NOT WITH RUINS IN YOUR MIND

Go not with ruins in your mind

Or beauty fails; Rome's sun is blind

And catacomb your cold hotel!

Where should-be heavens could-be hell.

Beware the temblors and the flood

That time hides fast in tourist's blood

And shambles forth from hidden home

At sight of lost-in-ruins Rome.

Think on your joyless blood, take care,

Rome's scattered bricks and bones lie there

In every chromosome and gene

Lie all that was, or might have been.

All architectural tombs and thrones

Are tossed to ruin in your bones.