Like our bed, through the half-opened door, the Pyramids are seen, from a distance, and your hair on the pillow, like twisted sails, is the picture I carry of Egypt. Under the sun, and the whip, I learned many secrets. Even love was simple, a motion of the oars as old as water. If I am born again, perhaps I will remember this bed, like sheets of desert wind, or a photograph of slaves, in which nothing can be touched, not even memories.