We felt no ounce of pity for what died.
   A slow procession, one last session:
it left us cold. For we were young
   and mocked the clamouring of flowers
and dressed-up sparrows, we walked on
   and lived our time to pieces.

The sensations, not the obligations, and the world
   a mattress. Amidst the blissful kisses, though,
a quiet sense that this was it: revelling, 
   here and now, the wisdom of an animal.
We felt no ounce of pity for what died.

And when we jerked awake in some white ward
   - far from the streets and the processions -
a half-starved man paid us a visit
   and pointed. We scarcely raised our eyes,
stayed calm and made the image fade.