Soon, these great stadiums will be empty,
Standing coolly at twilight, lit only
By the twilight, and there will be no sound,
No echo, and no memory of sound.

Soon, these mansions along North Boulevard
Will fall into disrepair, then will fall,
Their foundations given over to grass
Under the vaulted naves of the live oaks.

These freeways won’t dream of rush-hour traffic.
These towers won’t give you the time of day.
These storefronts won’t show the season’s fashion.
Nobody will try to take your money.

Soon, no one will remember how it was
To drive home at the end of the long day,
To hear a song you thought you’d forgotten,
To sleep and rise and not know quite what for.

And no one will remember what it was
To try to live and love and make love live
In these times we belong to but call ours,
Near the end of what looked like forever.

after Horace ...

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