Those who sailed at dawn

but will never return

left their trace on a wave—

a shell fell to the bottom of the sea

beautiful as lips turned to stone

those who walked on a sandy road

but could not reach the shuttered windows

though they already saw the roofs—

they have found shelter in a bell of air

but those who leave behind only

a room grown cold a few books

an empty inkwell white paper—

in truth they have not completely died

their whisper travels through thickets of wallpaper

their level head still lives in the ceiling

their paradise was made of air

of water lime and earth an angel of wind

will pulverize the body in its hand

they will be

carried over the meadows of this world