There's an end to everything:
birds in the trees, music
voices plangent and deep, sweet
tempests flaring in the mind of man
foreshadow for me
that terrible realisation
that we too follow this same steep cliff path
on nights of luminosity and in the utter desolation,
of the day, when mother, father, lover, friend
have swooned towards the moon in triumph
Or despair. Or when those steps we climbed
in childhood entering into the loneliness
of a winter dream distressed
creak and creak again it went
like the echoes of a scream.

And nothing is as nothing seems
and all retains the insubstantiality
of dream.

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