Is then death nothing in the unseen,
The omnipresent unseen in the seen,
When the face has gone in the seen,
& now is inscrutable in the unseen?
We are all born with bonds & wounds,
In the bay, at bay, bay blood hounds.

For whom but the coming of a stranger,
One who will make you forget who you were,
One who will show you exist no more there,
Nor where you are, nor where you were
& you will reply, you are the stranger,
Not I, the hunted, but you the hunter,
Whose face I remember not in nor dream
Before the face inscrutable in the unseen.
Copyright Robin Ouzman Hislop 2003
All rights reserved