What nights must have written
your soul to make you wish
to raise ruins over a celestial museum
with no horizon?
Deep is the night that unmade you,
so you could witness our end
from below.
Beats the stroke of no one
when no one invokes her name,
and he draws it—of absent heart.
He doesn’t know,
doesn’t remember
since when he has stood
at the center of the storm;
or since when his hand
no longer trembles.
He crosses the center
and he invokes his new deity:
No One, she.
The circle begins to close,
though late:
today the center is a rim
that slips away and frees him from it.
We are ruins and kindling for his fire;
and the threat of his yesterday
turns inevitable:
he is already writing
only for her:
Temple of Music—
her tomorrow.
Each heartbeat opens impossible doors,
and the Ancients do not understand
that he is writing his tomorrow
by the time they come to know
they will already have gone,
fused, into a forever—he and she—:
a temple with a new goddess,
bronze throat, golden bow,
the soul of a subject in ruins.
It is not an ancient prophecy,
it is his final fate:
We, statues of another time:
he is leaving us,
we melt into one,
into all, into nothing,
only to survive
his next storm.
What are we?—you asked.
And Music wrote his name:
You, who look at us from her beyond,
what are you?—she sang to him.
your soul to make you wish
to raise ruins over a celestial museum
with no horizon?
Deep is the night that unmade you,
so you could witness our end
from below.
Beats the stroke of no one
when no one invokes her name,
and he draws it—of absent heart.
He doesn’t know,
doesn’t remember
since when he has stood
at the center of the storm;
or since when his hand
no longer trembles.
He crosses the center
and he invokes his new deity:
No One, she.
The circle begins to close,
though late:
today the center is a rim
that slips away and frees him from it.
We are ruins and kindling for his fire;
and the threat of his yesterday
turns inevitable:
he is already writing
only for her:
Temple of Music—
her tomorrow.
Each heartbeat opens impossible doors,
and the Ancients do not understand
that he is writing his tomorrow
by the time they come to know
they will already have gone,
fused, into a forever—he and she—:
a temple with a new goddess,
bronze throat, golden bow,
the soul of a subject in ruins.
It is not an ancient prophecy,
it is his final fate:
We, statues of another time:
he is leaving us,
we melt into one,
into all, into nothing,
only to survive
his next storm.
What are we?—you asked.
And Music wrote his name:
You, who look at us from her beyond,
what are you?—she sang to him.