Classic Poem

In truth that morning had no succession. It can be said that it was limited to a single generation. For there was finally neither afternoon following the morning nor evening dusk following the afternoon. The morning was there with no clue, by itself, a morning. We all awoke at once, and had nothing to do. Between a quieter sea and a far quieter coast, in the vivid silence after those with courage to escape had all escaped, carelessly we simply exchanged greetings. Were the greetings then any different, for example, from the way the two halves of a clam close? With no hopes to put in the greetings, after raising our voices as in a chorus, we fell into a further silence. We bundled hay, pulled down the lever-iron, and in that posture could only wait for the time to have ourselves cut down. Unless cut down, the morning would have to remain simply a morning. Yes we hoped for it. That the morning in its mediocrity be a morning. If in the end there was nothing to come after that, we would already be able to be vegetables. In any case, before the morning was a morning, we ourselves had to be a morning. We did not wait singlemindedly for our last years, we were not promised a next generation. We held our breath and waited for the next ennui. For the time when the serene repetition of water and shore would finally, unrelatedly, mature into a myth.