The Grand Ballet

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