How turns the key
That turns but once,
That's heard but once?
Does it lock or free?
What sensible nonsense!
What freedom whilst memory persists?
Whilst indictments stand?
When remembrance convicts?
The key heard by the living
justly locks, and can only lockTill the cells of memory give up,
Discharging these small potentials.
There is no otherwise, no other way.
The key once turned is the door locked,
Always locked, till the death of memory
enacts the voiding absolution on the lost.
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| Francis Bacon's studio reconstituted at the City Gallery - The Hugh Lane, Dublin, Ireland. Photo by Antoine Moreau - Copyleft |
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