Flying past like a wingless bird
Over a road strewn with silence,
Measuring by the faces that have gone
All that’s been lived and lost,
Through potholes and roads gone to mud,
Past the skeletons of churches and village edges,
Giving myself to the time before last —
Let there be a remainder, as long as it won’t divide.
But one day, on a November evening,
I’ll open the creaking window vent,
Smile at yesterday’s troubles:
Oh, if only I could take even a handful along.
And when what was foretold comes true,
When the shutters close mid-swing,
Over the snow-dusted cross will sweep
A whirl of new faces.
There,
Where the light ends,
Where photons, tired,
Rest in the shade,
Just whisper to me,
Wink at me as if by chance,
And we’ll find ourselves there
Alone.
There,
Where the light ends,
Where photons, tired,
Rest in the shade,
Just whisper to me,
Wink at me as if by chance,
And we’ll find ourselves there.
There,
Just whisper to me,
And we’ll find ourselves there
Alone.