After the great insignia are stored away
The deer heads and ancestral manuscripts
And the furniture is covered by a fog of sheets
The lights turned off and the furnace stilled
And the woods are finally empty for winter
We drive back through the cities and seasons
Through arriving fall and leaving summer
Who seem to be fading into one
Long rainless spring and come
At last to our own stretch of beach
And the endlessly sounding sea
The first and last real thing in the world
To the shores where we killed our brothers
And thought it was paradise
No comments:
Post a Comment