have vanished. The criminals have outlived their children and the saints, they’ve gone home too. I will be underÌood less and less, but a wind, the priest once said, is blowing in my favor. It’s years later. There’s no sign of an End. For the mayor it’s a scandal. For the innkeeper, it’s just someone’s hair in the salad. I’m afraid there’s no other paradise. This must be it.
III In The Garden Of Gethsemane And so it will happen, my Love, When the gift of light isn’t thrown away When it drops its full weight on us When the dog at last found could be our own When insanity will be the insistence that he’s not When the steel splint supporting the mythic olive tree finally snaps When Gethsemane’s statues are no longer taken for granted When the risk is to remain locked in the ground When the agony is more than it takes to grow out of it When between holm oak wood and box-tree hedge, a bower When the three marble men reach out their arms When they pull back their bows When insanity will be insistence that they’re nothing but stone When the revelation is our silence.
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