I woke to falling curtains
an omnipotent red, waving
autumn hands on the edge
of time.
And of time -
there was none:
zilch-to-the-everlasting-zero.
I heard an iron curtain
close gently over the sky,
whispering as it touched
the dust.
And of dust -
there was plenty:
too much to bare with arms.
Where do the atheists go?
Because I wake to the end
of the world. The closure of
a city, the burning of Paris.
The shadow of Aeneas
as his sail forgets Carthage.
We who can't believe,
don't believe.
Until the end.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem