When there is no more need for words,
Our sins will dissolve,
Diluted in the still surface of a silent sea.
Our hopes will have turned like the revolutions of the moon,
Desires lost and won, lovers come and gone.
And the hum of cicadas, the closing of doors,
The settling of leaves in the soft moss
That grows by the sides of roads,
The drip of a faucet, or of rain upon a sill,
Will be as conversant as a great debate.
We will be as rocks in the hearts of mountains,
Forged in the fires of an ancient sun,
Or feathers on the wings of birds.
We will lie upon the grass, enfolded in the summer heat
As the last tinge of red is erased from the world,
And the laughter of children dies away.
Sleeping in the dominion of the stars,
Beneath those points of light piercing us through the darkness,
The warm night will hold us in her arms, softly cooing,
And we will lie still and listen, and that will be sufficient.