Yes, I remember it, the day I’ll die, I broadcast the crimson, so long ago of that sky, its spread air, its rushing dyes, and a piece of earth bleeding, apart from the shore, as we went on the day I’ll die, past the guards, and he, keeper of the world’s last saffron, rowed me on an island the size of a grave. On two yards he rowed me into the sunset, past all pain. On everyone’s lips was news of my death but only that beloved couplet, broken, on his: ‘If there is a paradise on earth, It is this, it is this, it is this.’
