I thought there would be a grave beauty, a sunset splendour
In being the last of one's kind: a topmost moment as one watched 
The huge wave curving over Atlantis, the shrouded barge 
Turning away with wounded Arthur, or Ilium burning. 
Now I see that, all along, I was assuming a posterity 
Of gentle hearts: someone, however distant in the depths of time, 
Who could pick up our signal, who could understand a story. There won't be. 

Between the new Hembidae and us who are dying, already 
There rises a barrier across which no voice can ever carry,
For devils are unmaking language. We must let that alone forever. 
Uproot your loves, one by one, with care, from the future, 
And trusting to no future, receive the massive thrust 
And surge of the many-dimensional timeless rays converging 
On this small, significant dew drop, the present that mirrors all.