I don't know if we're in the beginning <br />or in the final stage. <br /> -- Tomas Tranströmer <br /> <br />Rain is falling through the roof. <br />And all that prospered under the sun, <br />the books that opened in the morning <br />and closed at night, and all day <br />turned their pages to the light; <br /> <br />the sketches of boats and strong forearms <br />and clever faces, and of fields <br />and barns, and of a bowl of eggs, <br />and lying across the piano <br />the silver stick of a flute; everything <br /> <br />invented and imagined, <br />everything whispered and sung, <br />all silenced by cold rain. <br /> <br />The sky is the color of gravestones. <br />The rain tastes like salt, and rises <br />in the streets like a ruinous tide. <br />We spoke of millions, of billions of years. <br />We talked and talked. <br /> <br />Then a drop of rain fell <br />into the sound hole of the guitar, another <br />onto the unmade bed. And after us, <br />the rain will cease or it will go on falling, <br />even upon itself.<br /><br />Connie Wanek<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/after-us/
