|
|
| Wait, for now. |
| Distrust everything, if you have to. |
| But trust the hours. Haven't they |
| carried you everywhere, up to now? |
| Personal events will become interesting again. |
| Hair will become interesting. |
| Pain will become interesting. |
| Buds that open out of season will become lovely again. |
| Second-hand gloves will become lovely again, |
| their memories are what give them |
| the need for other hands. And the desolation |
| of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness |
| carved out of such tiny beings as we are |
| asks to be filled; the need |
| for the new love is faithfulness to the old. |
| |
| Wait. |
| Don't go too early. |
| You're tired. But everyone's tired. |
| But no one is tired enough. |
| Only wait a while and listen. |
| Music of hair, |
| Music of pain, |
| music of looms weaving all our loves again. |
| Be there to hear it, it will be the only time, |
| most of all to hear, |
| the flute of your whole existence, |
| rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion. |
