Deprivation is the mother of poetry. - Leonard Cohen

I never think about The Past but sometimes The Past thinks about me and sits down ever so lightly on my face —

Then I start to struggle
With a feeble song
Which will overcome me
Many miles from home

And I'll dance with you in Vienna,
I'll be wearing a river's disguise.
The hyacinth wild on my shoulder
my mouth on the dew of your thighs.
And I'll bury my soul in a scrapbook,
with the photographs there and the moss.
And I'll yield to the flood of your beauty,
my cheap violin and my cross.