but there was no answer.
My name died on my lips.
No stone would consecrate it.
The grass parted no more.
Birds flew where I had been.
Little children vanquished my footprints.
Invisible to the world of matter,
I went after the wind,
but made no rustle among the leaves.
Listen, heart of ebony,
what is it that truly matters?
Our reach is infinite, yet contains nothing:
A few flowers dying in a vase.
A book or two.
Stills of a vanished life stuffed in a shoebox.
A tea ring left upon a polished table,
reflecting the blinks of sunlight through slatted shades.
A door opens somewhere;
footfalls on a hardwood floor;
a radio -- distant murmurs;
a cool sheet drawn upon a head;
the buzz of a fly that drifts away;
whisperings of this or that;
a closing door, then nothing more.