Saturday, December 15, 2018




No more than the song of it. As if

the singing alone

had led us back to this place.

We have been here, and we have never been here.

We have been on the way to where we began,

and we have been lost.

There are no boundaries

in the light. And the earth

leaves no word for us

to sing. For the crumbling of the earth


is a music in itself, and to walk among these stones

is to hear nothing

but ourselves.

I sing, therefore, of nothing,

as if it were the place

I do not return to —

and if I should return, then count out my life

in these stones: forget

I was ever here. The world

that walks inside me

is a world beyond reach.


Paul Auster
Collected Poems
Overlook Press, 2004