You walked in flowered fields with me

and talked of music, sex, philosophy,

of women, men, their loves and friends,

the fools who taught, our fated ends,

for we had read the strange Camus,

and even Dostoevsky knew,

but Kurosawa was our rage,

and Bergman was to us a sage,

as Ho Chi Minh fought our endless fight,

Guevara murdered was by night,

but while we wondered of our role

we found ourselves in Rubber Soul,

in Kerouac, Marx, and LSD,

for we were seventeen and free,

so road the rails, spent time in jail

wrote howling lines in one long wail,

drifting on a lonely sea,

of younger thoughts, of possibility,

but now you’re dead, some say it’s true,

or did you make it to Peru,

where once you promised me you’d go,

on reading lines from old Thoreau.