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The future must be endless before me,
shouting for me to catch up with the past,
its yesterday an eternal dream,
mysterious and murky,
daylight participating in the night where I dreamed
of one dead, shorter hair, no longer given to sing,
not remembering things,
but otherwise young as I remember him.
As long as I am confident of the future
and the distant past seems just like yesterday,
I will weep privately and sincerely,
and, as a poet, know just what to say.
A poem will be plain, heard music
and the moment I fall asleep it will be day.
