When the time that was given us is gone,
and the wild shaking of the wind is here,
why do you rear up, look back?
Why see again the fields,
their stubble ploughed for upland rain,
why see the thistle and the grapes that climb unchecked?
Why see the road
that carves ravines, descends, arrives,
and forks and forks again,
until the tiny capsule that you made
is all that’s left of any light? What drives you back
into this story, unlearn its proof, the very one you wrote?
When it is all too late
and darkness takes the wind, too late
to rearrange, reverse, repeat, deny,
does the solitary,
dimming mind demand
to understand the truth? And why?