The sword will die like the grain.
The crystal, not more brittle than the rock.
All things, your future of dust.
Iron is rust. Voice, echo.
Adam, the young father, is your ashes.
The last garden will be the first.
The nightingale and Pindar are voices.
The aurora is the reflection of the sunset.
Mycenae, the mask of gold.
The high wall, the raped ruin.
Urquiza, what the daggers leave behind.
The face that looks in a mirror
Is not yesterday's face. The night has worn it.
The soft weather chisels us.
The crystal, not more brittle than the rock.
All things, your future of dust.
Iron is rust. Voice, echo.
Adam, the young father, is your ashes.
The last garden will be the first.
The nightingale and Pindar are voices.
The aurora is the reflection of the sunset.
Mycenae, the mask of gold.
The high wall, the raped ruin.
Urquiza, what the daggers leave behind.
The face that looks in a mirror
Is not yesterday's face. The night has worn it.
The soft weather chisels us.
That runs in the parable of Heraclitus,
or the devious fire, but here,
In this long day that never passes,
I feel both lasting and derelict.
or the devious fire, but here,
In this long day that never passes,
I feel both lasting and derelict.
