One last poem called "Poem."
This poem is not addressed to you.
You may come into it briefly.
But no one will find you here, no one.
You will have changed before the poem will.
Even while you sit there unmovable,
you have begun to vanish.
And it does not matter.
The poem will go on without you.
It has the spurious glamor of certain voids.
It is not sad really, only empty.
Once perhaps it was sad, no one knows why.
It prefers to remember nothing.
Nostalgias were peeled from it long ago.
Your type of beauty has no place here.
Night is the sky over this poem.
It is too black for stars.
And do not look for any illumination.
You neither can or should understand what it means.
Listen, it comes without guitar, neither in rags,
nor any purple fashion.
And there is nothing in it to comfort you.
Close your eyes, yawn.
It will be over soon.
You will forget the poem.
But not before it is forgotten you.
And it does not matter.
It has been most beautiful and its vivacious.
Oh, bleached mirrors, oceans of the drowned.
And it does not matter what you think.
These are not my words now.
This poem is not addressed to you.
[APPLAUSE]
Can you help?
I can't--
Let me help you.
Silly things is--
There it is.
OK, thanks.
[INTERPOSING VOICES]
I think it would be appropriate to repeat
that we're having a public reception
right now in the Student Union.
The terrace room.