Everything is the same in this mirror
Which forces me to obedience
And to repeated prefigured movements
The faces are empty drifts of the night
Through which what I once was now returns as fear
As a lost child who receives death
Always heading toward the dust
Across the words I reach the sods
Without sensing what is woven
Under my hand in that overflowing darkness
Which secretly steals my face
In that mirror of obedience
There follows a night of retreats and flights
Needful steps for the pure movement
Puzzled looks
Merciless ticking of the clocks
And still, neither flock, nor bird, nor beast
And now I am the voice which repeats me
Above the water that quenched my thirst
The Dead Poet and the Young Lady
AuthorJordan Danilovski