words, words, words from tuesday and thursday

Explorers 

by Charles Simic

They arrive inside

The object at evening.

There's no one to greet them.

The lamps they carry 

Cast their shadows 

Back into their own minds.

They write in their journals:

The sky and earth 

Are of the same impenetrable color.

If there are rivers and lakes, 

They must be under the ground.

Of the marvels we sought, no trace.

Of the strange new stars, nothing.

There's not even wind or dust, 

So we must conclude that someone

Passed recently with a broom...

As they write, the new world

Gradually stitches 

Its black thread into them.

Eventually nothing is left

Except a low whisper,

Which might belong

Either to one of them

Or to someone who came before.

It says: "I'm happy

We are finally all here...

Let's make this our home."

"The term origin does not mean the process of becoming of that which has emerged, but much more, that which emerges out of the process of becoming and disappearing."

-Walter Benjamin

from The Origin of German Tragic Drama