They were harlequin dancers,
treading a gracious measure;
music-less, delicate, each of them being
the obverse of the other.
A fortunate conjunction, a synchronicity:
this side of time you may not see again
They were black and white to each other
snowfall on winter trees.
They were light and dark to each other; now
their days are pitiless, their nights are ice.
She lies bone-bare under desert sun; he
whirls in cold space.
Masked and bespangled, androgyne,
they spiralled down the years;
but now the aeons weigh them down,
seconds are centuries.
The elegance is broken, the fine pattern gone,
and each is half of each again,
and all of none.