It does not know it glittersIt does not know it fliesIt does not know it is this not that.And, more and more often, agape,With my Gauloise dying out,Over a glass of red wine,I muse on the meaning of being this not that.Just as long ago, when I was twenty,But then there was a hope I would be everything,Perhaps even a butterfly or a thrush, by magic.Now I see dusty district roadsAnd a town where the