And even though you were right I know you’d not be minding the books written about you now by the scavengers, but mourning – possess you that regenerate ability – but you know this also:
‘Strange
is a human’s relationship to fame, it’s immortality: I built you a mansion in the depths of the great sea where the ugliest of creatures scavenge your things and you are nowhere to be found and will Never count your gold.’
Here it is cold, here it is dark – a moonless winter night and we are tired, like defeat, who see years do to a nation what years do to a man, a woman
cold flames of our dreams died down and each time we sleep we don’t care if we ever wake.
Now I remember why I write to you – you do not have ears to hear anymore, you cannot read: and because you live in the place of the dead I feel our commonality, like we’d have something to talk about, or at least that when I say the word ‘separation’ or something like that your reaction would undoubtedly acknowledge the vast difference between a word and what it means, is.
And here, me, now: the winter passes –
Cling I to the bough where the vine can be found, where he is to be found;9 I will wait for the moon, it will slake the thirst in part (the thirst of the eyes); I will work while the rest sleep and go from this place like time,
someday soon a song just for you and all who cannot hear, so precise, so perfect. This isn’t the last song.10 A radiance emanates from the door which is opening.
(Franny Glass, 1956)
