Yet he says much who utters "evenings,"
A word from which grave thought and sadness flow
Like rich dark honey from the hollow combs.
this was “absolution”
we turned the words in our fingers
like coloured pebbles
smiling vaguely, shy,
wondering what they meant,
wondering what we had been.
"if i die now", he says to himself, "then everything which is held inside the word evening as i am uttering it exactly this moment, is lost. no clinging to memory, no dream of absolution. this precise and stunningly clear configuration of the universe, as it is right this moment, the shape of these fields, the cotton-like grasses i passed by, the warmth of the dog fur lingering in my fingers, my shadow as it is stretching now across the path, these glowing colours of autumn and i myself, my body heavy with the world that i carry inside, not simply mirroring the one outside but lending it the clarity of a soul, the singleness of a purpose, will be lost. as if they had never existed. countless mouths will still open to say evening all over the earth, yet this particular weaving of time and space and soul, which now seems to be, as i feel it, essential, perhaps indispensable to the universe, will be no longer."
the crows, no longer held in sight by a gaze, fly low through the darkness.