The smooth west wind
pulled your silver side to the sun;

At seventy miles an hour
there wasn't time

to know you;

it creased my hair
and sent my deciduous love flying....

where these tiny boats

curled

into a fold of air;

conspired

to let me

love you

the only way I know how

Tabula rasa (Latin: scraped tablet or clean slate) refers to the epistemological thesis that individual human beings are born with no innate or built-in mental content, in a word, "blank", and that their entire resource of knowledge is built up gradually from their experiences and sensory perceptions of the outside world

                                                                                    -- Wikipedia

Estragon (aphoristic for once): We are all born mad. Some remain so.

                                                                        Samuel Beckett, Waiting for Godot

what should now be said

to the young man grown old

what charmed wind

struck and calendered his days

and left his songs unsung

whilst the slow scolding etch of time

utters its sole remark

into the vibrant air

Estragon to Vladimir: I've found a grass path I'll follow to its end

what torn loss

squirming with intellect and wonder

was ushered to the door

and left standing there;

how unrolls now the pinch of pain

left there by its charges

what hurt thing

now arches its back lazily

builds a fire de facto over the head

and asks: why is it?

Vladimir to Estragon: I've found all manner of speaking no cope for words

whose yearning was it

that held its breath easily

which lie

spread amongst all the old lies

left its mark of grief

coloured clouds of despair

and launched the breach

of air

Vladimir to no one in particular: I've found what fullness of self was left hiding there...

what trial is still held between clenched teeth

and chasms of silence

what cavernous vent

tears again this way

where sour history gives foaming rent

all beliefs contain some form of lie

hidden deep beneath their meaning

Estragon: I've found it's not enough to be worldly in affairs....

there wandering child goes I

little and innocent face washed clean

I was held mortal brief by hollow stem

and quite simply, plumply

lowered gently into the ground