As for that other thing <br />which comes when the eyelid is glazed <br />and the wax gleam <br />from the unwrinkled forehead <br />asks no more questions <br />of the dry mouth, <br /> <br />whether they open the heart like a shirt <br />to release a rage of swallows, <br />whether the brain <br />is a library for worms, <br />on the instant of that knowledge <br />of the moment <br />when everything became so stiff, <br /> <br />so formal with ironical adieux, <br />organ and choir, <br />and I must borrow a black tie, <br />and at what moment in the oration <br />shall I break down and weep - <br />there was the startle of wings <br />breaking from the closing cage <br />of your body, your fist unclenching <br />these pigeons circling serenely <br />over the page, <br /> <br />and, <br />as the parentheses lock like a gate <br />1917 to 1977, <br />the semicircles close to form a face, <br />a world, a wholeness, <br />an unbreakable O, <br />and something that once had a fearful name <br />walks from the thing that used to wear its name, <br />transparent, exact representative, <br />so that we can see through it <br />churches, cars, sunlight, <br />and the Boston Common, <br />not needing any book.<br /><br />Derek Walcott<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/r-t-s-l-1917-1977/
