Nothing lasts but not all is lost,
We leave our presence in space and time,
We are a memory of an echo, we are shadows, we are dust,
Pulvis et Umbra Sumus, as Horace told us once.
When all is done and endless sleep is all we have to bear,
Silently we take our leave and melt into thin air,
Without regret and scorning fear we walk the road to ruin.
An abandoned house overlooking the sea, left to decay,
No one now inside to hear the tap of the corroded knocker,
There is no key that will open this door.
A crucifix hanging from a nail, broken by the wind and rain,
Crucified by nails again.
The sea air's Judas kiss corrupts the nail,
Stains of rust wept onto the body imitate dry blood.
Late afternoon light sculpts the weathered wood,
The texture reveals secrets in the cracked surface,
Three symbols tell the story,
Written in the language of a Byzantine Icon.
Behind this door, painted the colour of the Sun, spirit remains,
Waiting for the final call.