At last to leave behind all that confusion: 
the things of ours that never quite belonged 
although, like water in a well, they served
to reflect ourselves (it trembled: we were gone); 
to shed what still attempts to cling 
as if attached by thorns - and suddenly 
to see in close-up, every detail clear, 
people and things impossible to see 
(familiar and banal and always there) 
and find them tender and conciliatory; 
at last to comprehend old injuries 
and realise how disproportionate 
our childhood's overwhelming sense of hurt 
had been; in spite of all to leave, to tear 
our hands away as if to tear a scar 
already healed, and to depart: but where? 
Into uncertainty, looking to find 
some distant, unfamiliar, temperate land 
to be the setting that our actions need 
(the courtyard, or the garden, as required); 
to take our leave: but why? Because we're driven; 
because of what we are, our dispositions; 
because of urgent premonitions; 
because of darkness and our lack of vision: 

To make this whole attempt; perhaps in vain 
of what we hold; perhaps to die 
uncomprehendingly, perhaps alone 
How else can we discover a new life?