The Empty Days

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The Empty Days

The empty days, decayed adobe of years

Collapsed into their own emptiness,

Draught through a space unwon

For a hint of sense. A pile of newspapers growing

And ageing, layer by layer, like filthy snow.

Memories beaten from low-carat gold

And hallmarked by deliberate mistake. The

Empty days, winter on the withdrawal, defeat

Dosed as a drug: in the mornings and before

Sleep. The mill, gristless, obedient to the

Wheel’s turn, grinds moonlight. One last simile:

Ageing at a standstill, or engine out of gear.

And yet—

whoever gathers his thoughts in emptiness

As in a church, learns the wisdom of silence, and

Slips inside its tongue, dark and distinct, will not

Be silent for nothing. He will be like a marionette

Which sees its strings, and senses a motion

Outplaying emptiness and the moment the string breaks.

The blessing of the empty days: a lesson on the limits

Of rational misfortune. Our daily rule.

The empty days, decayed adobe of years.

(1989)

(Translated by Francis R. Jones)

Introduction to Empty Days in the Times Literary Supplement