We vanished into the years.
We found the planets were not so hospitable after all:
each cherry blossom contained whole stars,
even though we drove around for hours
we couldn’t find the address we wanted.

Tiny worms infected our tear ducts.
Who cares about each grain of sand?
And we couldn’t stop the process:
artists turned into sightseers,
who turned into refugees,
who turned into corpses.
The roads were monstrous,
dragons of wreckage and desert and dropped toys.
The parties went on for days and no one filmed the riots or murders.

Within each atom of every thing
a tincture of exodus had been instilled:
it led to fire and change.
In the graves of great books, heroes had room to strut and pose,
but no one spoke Egyptian, and in any case
the moment was lost, like love in a toothache.

A strange democracy came over us,
something to do with months and kilometres and cold.
The psychopath was lonely, too, and locked inside
the derelict warehouse of his dream
the crying child might have been him.
Sad and silver helicopters flew down from space
and took all the dead away.
The snow, and indifference, did the rest.

The song of the crowd is a low and cheap one.
And we never thought we’d sing that song.
But even that song became a whisper, first, then
a rumour, and so, finally…
At the core of all our words and gestures, we discovered
an immeasurable silence we could not accept, and,
stubbornly, at once we
set ourselves to measure.
The rest is history.

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