How much further then, should we go
before the towers and those terrible brick walls crack and crumble
falling like dark and silent birds,
falling from cliff faces, wheeling, quietly, silently, gliding down?
Let us go; walk on, to find out.
Don't stop us before the question is answered,
before the many years of your image in my mind
fade before us in the wind of some desolate dream.
And even so, people walk
on and on before the lamp.
Shall we explore these lonely terraces,
finding the solitary pain of each black crack upon the pavement stones
or those tiles which are tacky upon the walls,
which crack and crumble and flake?
Let us go then, keep walking on,
and please don't stop us before the question is answered.
No, hush! Say little of your glowing head, your round cheeks, your nose,
your lips so soft and once so claiming,
your dark dark hair, your big dark eyes
so claiming;
say little and claim even less.
No, say no more,
mean no more,
for words and their meanings lose all sense it seems
within the cavernous cracks of these quiet walls.
For stone is hard to scrub: it leaves behind
in grains, in cracks, in flaws and rough surfaces
the grime and green of the dark and falling past.
If you say little I will give you wine;
if you are insistent, the wine will flow.
Are there many years yet, before the end?
Or is it near?
And even so, people walk
on and on before the lamp.
Shall we prowl about these lonely shells
of stone and mason's work, inspired by nothing more than stealth
and the darkness,
led perhaps by wandering moths deep and deeper
into the cracks of these sullen homes?
If we walk in, let us walk in,
and let us not stop before the question is answered.
What house is this we explore, clad in clothes of what unexplained lust, lust for knowledge, lust for wealth,
lust for love?
What walls are these that surround us so
that when candles are placed on window-sills
voices echo and threaten the lovers within
so full of lust, lust for knowledge, lust of love?
The lovers curl on moonlit nights on rough blankets
in hot climes, behind heavy doors which creak:
what lovers are these that loved for love?
If there are many years yet, let there be an end;
and if it is near, let it end soon.
And are or were we really meant, you and I,
to walk about these dark and unlit houses,
friendly to us,
but dark and condemned, trying to find some peace of mind that will not
and perhaps cannot ever, by you and I,
be found in less than these two pieces?
Oh if there is and end let it come:
bright if it be soon, dark if it be far,
but let it come to you and I.
Let us leave this past then and cross the sea
to find new streets to prowl about on, new pavements to hurt our feet on,
new homes and buildings similar but different,
to crawl and creep in, in quietness and in rage.
But has the question been answered, even here,
so far away from past actions and beautiful lives?
Let us go with our bags, keep walking on,
and let's not be stopped before our question is answered.
It seems to me that even here I have been before,
it seems to me I know this well, so far away,
and really nothing's changed:
there are still two pieces.
When was there one?
So long ago!
So long ago!
So long ago it seems that even I the treasurer, the keeper,
collector of smells and looks and dark dark looks
have forgotten what has been said and what dreamt.
Forgotten, like those so many others before and after,
what has been held, what quietly held, and what has been lost,
what softness quietly lost, slipped away,
and lost into the past, into foreign streets.
Is there an end then? Let it end
somewhere between here and there, between you and I,
before the pieces fall from two and crumble and break and flake.
Let it end soon,
for otherwise it will be dark
and darkly tones will fall upon us from those terrible rough stones.
What endings are there to confront us on these streets?
Keep asking as you walk on, walk on
and don't stop before the question is answered.
An end of brightness that will make the sad
sink in fear of unaccustomed happiness
(but they will accept it for fear of joy);
an end of dark dark birds of dark dark wings,
raven-black,
taking the pieces away, far apart
to different nests where growth and death abide;
an end where seeming happiness is ascendant,
where you don't care and I don't care you don't:
and this an end that will end
so very violently, big dark-eyedly, fearfully soon.
And even so others walk
on and on before your lamp.
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