Friday, December 11, 2009

an old man awake in his own death

this is the place that was promised
when i went to sleep,
taken from me when i woke.

this is the place unknown to anyone,
where names of ships and stars
drift out of reach.

the mountains are not mountains anymore;
the sun is not the sun.
one tends to forget how it was.

i see myself, i see
the shine of darkness on my brow.
once i was whole, once i was young...

as if it mattered now
and you could hear me
and the weather of this place would ever cease.

~ mark strand


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