Who owns the sunset? Who is mistress of the stars? Do the navigators of fortune Sit at a table and boast? Are the humours four fine sisters?
Can it be that I am Master of all these things? Do I hold the yet untwined Ball of string of the future in my hands? My hands. My hands of no strength, My hands of no extraordinary skill, My hands that arrive at eternity unclean.
These fingers that are whole In spite of broken spirits Are treated as the fingers Of perfection. Of blamelessness. Of forgiveness.
The threads of time Are dusty in my fingers. A fine mist of sediment Crumbles at my touch. Delicate stars are loosened And burn out in my sight.
Reaching up I return This future to the hands In which It belongs. Stars and light dance down Into my eyes, and I know Who owns the sunset.