Dreaming of Babylon

Hand of power, heart of whimsy, tamer of mighty rivers. Rivers of initial learning, nurturer of ancient gardens, gardens in their fabled beauty hanging yet in utter freshness in the fecund hearts of poets. Poet at heart cooped solitary, hostage of life's fickle fortune. Fortune dreamed with vanished glories still as green as tendrils twining. Twining on to memories heart-held, held while tending patch of foliage, muttering through graying mustache, "You're soft muffins, crumbly cookies, munchies in my white cell circle; circle stony though surrounds me, I'm still palm tree, brave, steadfast; that you're not, but bush."