They Don't Look Behind Them

They don't look behind them to bid exile farewell,
since ahead of them is exile, and they've intimated the circular
road, so there's no ahead and no behind, and no
north and no south. "They emigrate"
from the fence to the garden. They leave a will
in every meter of the courtyard:
"Remember after us
only life" . . .
"They travel" from the silken morning
to the dust at noon, carrying their caskets filled
with things of absence: an identity card, and a letter
to a lover with an unknown address:
"Remember after us
only life" . . .
And "they depart" from the houses to the streets,
sketching out the wounded victory sign, telling
whoever sees them:
"We're still alive, so don't remember us!"
They get out of the story to breathe and to sunbathe.
They dream how to fly higher . . . then higher.
They ascend and descend. Come and go.
And leap from ancient ceramics to the stars.
And they return to the story . . . endless is the beginning.
They escape from sleepiness to the angel of sleep,
who is white, red-eyed from contemplating
the shed blood:
"Remember after us
only life" . . .