And yet the books will be there on the shelves
separate beings
That appeared once, still wet
As shinning chestnuts under a tree in autumn
And touched, coddled, began to live
In spite of fires on the horizon, castles blown up
Tribes on the March, planets in motion.“We are”, they cried even as their pages
Were being torn out or a buzzing flame
Licked away their letters.
So much more durable than we are
Whose frail warmth cools down with memory
Disperses, perishes.
I imagine the earth when I am no more
Nothing changes, no loss, it’s still a strange pageant:
Women’s dresses, dewy lilacs, a song in the valley.Yet the books will be there on the shelves, well born,
Derived from people, but also from radiance – heights.