No past bears presents to equal being here.
Put that book away. Ghost faces, doubtful gifts.
Word apparitions washed ashore to perish
As life roars by in blue reverie blurs,
Tulips incandescent as the rain that beats them
When March storms unleash this wild dance of forms.
Presence comes before being, being before
There was ever a you or me. Ancient
Grief will go from you as from sorrowing songs
Sorrow goes, leaving nothing for you
To whom everything belongs because your poor
Defenseless inner self has gaily sailed
Into the room like all the modern languages
Coming down to us, so you could say these things.