We three will stay behind,
Twice a day drinking the sweet water,
Lying abreast, gazing at the sea,
In whose immensity we’ll try to find
Like spaciousness of mind
We do not judge, or speak, or even think
Of the horror that is to come.
We are only a machine of memory,
Our purpose just, just, to take in,
In slow, slow measure, the outline of the sin
The whale avenged.
We will not worry the harried birds:
Our quest is to digest our brains,
As our bodies have already devoured themselves.
We do not hope, or want, or even expect.
Some day our bleached bones will salt the sea:
It is enough.