So we found the end of our journey. So we stood, alive in the river of light, Among the creatures of light, creatures of light.

Where white is black and black is white, I won.

The world's decay where the wind's hands have passed, And my head, worn out with love, at rest In my hands, and my hands full of dust.

There is no better way to know us Than as two wolves, come separately to a wood.

I think it was Milosz, the Polish poet, who when he lay in a doorway and watched the bullets lifting the cobbles out of the street beside him realised that most poetry is not equipped for life in a world where people actually die. But some is.

He could not stand. It was not That he could not thrive, he was born With everything but the will – That can be deformed, just like a limb. Death was more interesting to him. Life could not get his attention.

And as if reporting some felony to the police they let you know you were not John Donne.