The world bent towards the end I would have written
then like a harp-string snapped—the twisted threads
unwound, and all sprung back to what we had been
now I am gutted—and you, I think, are dead.
What use are harps when vaunting horns of silver
proclaim the world has ended; what for me
is left amongst the ruin and raging rivers
of blood and ash, and every tie cut free?
And yet—when your song wound through empty halls
and through your melodies all was reclaimed
I loved it then; that strain; its dying fall--
but tunes are lost, and only words remain.
Yes, only words remain. I cannot write
the wonder in your song—the world alight.