It was going to snow.
Winter was now on the next little hill.
How it all grows dark
Here at the end of language.
Was it real?
At La Seu,
Cripples waited by dying votives long after dark,
Where tomorrow,
Morning fields would stretch into December beyond our agreement.
Once over our sad garden,
Lights in the sky held their great distances –
Where we could not sleep.
We were waiting at the end of language,
As our luminous details began to fade.
After the storm,
It was a clearing synesthesia of stars in the sound of diamonds and anise.
It was a requiem and non-repeating decimal of crows on the next little hill.
It could have been an Afillá rasp of wind
Forming Saetas over la Serra de Tramuntana.
It could have been a lament of those coming before or after,
Bringing soft nouns of enervated music and light.
Was it real?
Now, after youth,
Winter was on the next little hill.
It was going to snow –
And we almost noticed how it all grew dark –
Here at the end of compassion –
Here at the end of language.