I stand at the edge of the sea at the home of the most praised poet of this country. His surrealist style is mirrored in a fantastical custom-built home, now a museum, run by a foundation in his name. His extensive collections of everything from busts to bottles to boats fill the house and spill out into the yard.

People from across the continent and the globe are here waiting to get a deeper glimpse of what made up this man with a love of people, justice, and words. His many volumes are filled with odes to this land and its people, and the honors bestowed upon him seem to be bestowed upon the nation as well, even though he lived much of his time in exile, and died (almost of heartbreak) days after the coup that would hold this nation’s people under military rule for years to come. He is buried in this spot along with the last of his three wives, about whom he wrote a book of cherished love poems.

I stand in front of a moored ship looking out, the fresh breeze in my face, and I don’t want to leave, I never want to leave. I imagine him writing in his green ink in front of his plate glass window the last lines of a poem about his craft from a book with the same name as this place:

And I, tiny being,

drunk with the great starry

void,

likeness, image of

mystery,

felt myself a pure part

of the abyss,

I wheeled with the stars.

My heart broke loose with the wind.

Do you know where I am?

For the answer go to the next page