This is from life, I was there:
exploring secrets hidden behind shapes, colours and scents –
the smell of that philadelphus, god almighty!
In Canto One I was skipping like a child through a spring garden of green:
Nabokov smiled from a distant gateway
where he had once met a gentle gardener.
In Canto One I lived on,
I flew to an unreachable horizon:
A million cameras could not catch that flight.