That some time ago I was not, are you aware? and you say, no. If I ask release from hast, if I can slow, I shall hold out against the past...

For I am more than
dream in dream.
Only the preachers after borders
are like days or like tones,
forcing themselves hard through your
hands,
foreign,
following their freedoms;
and your hands mourn to let them stream.

The dark is left you,
yours alone,
and into the further empty span
arose a world history
built of an ever blinder stone.
Does even one soul continue building?
Mass calls after mass in vain,
the stones are neglected where they lie,

and none of them is of your hewing...