Confession of a Scholar

Noon odors among cypresses recompense somewhat
For my wasted life, give me knowledge of whom I am.
Odors emanating from wet pine needles, crisscrossed
On a sluggish, tadpole pond dark bank
Give the knowledge scholars could not give.
Chiarra, if I could press my ear against your breasts,
Listen to pulsations that speak love,
My wasted life would be fully redeemed.