After the end one can see,
and we never saw how the night began.
We saw only the window
and a misty grey
that kept on speaking:
Take care! You are being forgotten.
And that silence, that dwelling, that stillness,
those turnings full of greed.
– Will I be forgotten with the setting of the last star?
We were in the middle and did not see,
I did not see
that it was a circle,
that its beginning sat upon its end,
so the first letter was the last letter,
and we had passed the window,
and there was no misty grey,
and there were no blues,
and there was no whisper:
– Take care! …
It was near the end,
and the pain had come,
and I did not see
the lights stretching,
the walls stretching,
the voices stretching,
and time
going into forgetting.
– … ?
It was after the end,
and there was pain, and it went on, and it repeated,
and the word had fallen from a height,
from the height of what had happened to us,
and the blues were gone,
and the mirrors no longer faced each other,
and I had been forgotten,
so there was no letter,
and the night never began.
