But everyone has left, in your wish to be alone.
There is no priestly hymn from the television screen,
The religion of apartheid won't make it in tonight.
A moth stays close, the moon is rising,
You have talked for eight hours straight,
Yet what is missing now, the listening,
Has washed the shards of light away
And there is much left, unspoken,
Not needing to be right, or real or heard.
It dreads the sense of something coming
As ideas and their noises tumble into form.
They fear that something will be said, that is to say,
They will be disappointed when it's not.
