195

There are those that hold
Love to them like a
Testament of their participal
Selves. They speak
Words in the hours of our
Sleep, to themselves,
To nobody, that sound the
Progressions of an
Old litany, an old song.
We may not hear
That they speak, but only
Register the sound.
The days pass like hours.

A time will come
In which the world will grow
So loveless, so old
And abstract and facile
That all will be
Like a long and light sleep
In the afternoon,
And then an evening that no
Night will end.
We will sleep, and drown
Our loves in sleep.