In the dead of dead
in the night of night
there, you are, in front of yourself
in the mirror of your destiny
counting the years like receipts
in the accounting book of time
in the destiny of destiny
in the time of time
nothing matters
for all is played out then absorbed
each sharp pivot becoming soft memory
but only if there is someone to remember
In remembering the destiny you recover the night
your fingertips playing time across keys of illumination
you, the living memory of the dead, an onward step
here, now, after the give away
after each and every purge
after sickness became liberation
in the end you let go even hope
and smile with naked acceptance
