What, am I dead in thee? The limits
what are the limits?
The child speaks & the open field of the present is the field
of the past. What happened is happening, the poignancy of
past desire and earnestness notwithstanding. Wishes not
standing. But after forty years the voices come back, old
selves contending, guileless & innocent of what they have
become: mute. The road the long road too hard to go down
or back. Cannot say, the loss more than the gain, of words.
All knowledge & sorrow enclaved is in the heart of the
child. To bear the world means losing it, as with last sight,
dimming, when beyond the window it is a-shimmering. No
need to say goodbye–