After the dead words,
after the ones still said and spoken,
what do you expect? Some flying leaves,
more scattered papers. Who knows?
Some dissolving
words, like the light or the echo dying out there in the great night.
In the deepest nights
words left behind or asleep
may find their connections.
In scattered papers, who knows or forgets them?
Someday perhaps they’ll resonate—who knows?—
in a few sympathetic hearts.
I would say a few words
in your ear. A doubtful man has little faith.
Live a long time and it gets dark, and suddenly you know you don’t
know yourself.
But I’d say them even so. Since my eyes repeat what they take in:
your beauty, your name, the river’s sound, the woods, the soul on its own.
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