What can I say to you which has not been said before
by more talented and by wiser people?
Perhaps this time, I can praise you most
by refraining from speech,
by the quality of the silence I bring to you
and in which you laugh
not noticing that, outside, the rain has turned to snow?…

You could say that in this situation,
we move through a landscape of heart-broken images.
Stones that don’t work anymore, obsolete rooms,
lovely songs which somehow gain no traction upon us
and slide away into the rain-chipped streets…
A landscape of trains, anonymous faces in carriages —
stressed and worn-down faces, whole series of them,
waiting in the station to go — where? —
home? To sleep? To a room? To the next day?
To a dream? To a lover? Or, to an unfulfilled ambition?…

Certainly, in one sense at least,
you could say that in this situation
we are not self-possessed, or not sufficiently
self-possessed to deal with the heart as a broken thing.
Instead, we struggle; and often for the person involved
it can be very hard, and their life must seem
like a walk through titanic ruins,
a place which is almost all aftermath,
a kind of stunned pseudo-posterity…
Where things are not quite real, and yet persist…
As in a bereavement…

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