At Nightfall

When this time, foul up and dull, passes away. When all contrivances light untangle. When the grave-digger is himself entombed. Where’ll your hiding place be? Stock your arsenals, Store your bullion, Mere matters they’ll become. When the earth’s table turns, When its element is burnt, When its clock strikes its last, I will quietly lie And stir no more. Perhaps, we’ll wake into a new day.