Outside the fierce winds howled through the trees,
while in his dream the horsemen chased him down.
Nowhere to run, he curled into a round stone,
a smooth small rock with a palpitating heart.
Maybe the apocalypse would see through
his trembling cage of polished bones?
In that huddled pose he fell into a subtler dream,
and the winds rushed down from the sky machine.
Rather than resisting now, he spread into a paradox,
an enigma that lifted and drifted without a solution.
Nobody would dare admit that it could be so thrilling –
by the grace of the winds, none were able to say a word.
He remembered the lonely ship at sea, he remembered
the music, and the soft animals curling around his legs.
There is a soulful feeling that lingers after the winds pass,
after the body drops away and there is only silent darkness.
He carried that feeling now in his heart, even as he lay
curled into a small round stone, his beating heart a beacon.
The apocalypse then beheld him in its impersonal gaze,
and the horsemen rode on into the night, they didn’t stop.
They pounded down the road to their terrible destination —
it was hidden away at the end of a poem, a short sad one.
Nobody had ever lived to read that poem, for to do so
would leave the whole world shattered, brokenhearted.
This is how the fierce winds finally turned into quiet animals,
just like the soft ones who wrapped themselves around you.
They had become little poems themselves, they opened up,
you turned the pages, smiling, I woke up in your hands.