With this certain slant of light
I believe the building might as well
be golden, as a tribute to forgotten might,
old and deserted in an urban desert.
With the passing of a day
or of a thousand years,
or, say, a life-time, I look back,
inevitably almost, and mostly stagger
for this fact as if incomprehensible.
Passing this urban artifact that will stay here
a little longer, and hearing the day breathing still,
I walk back home thinking fleeting thoughts
on the fleeting of my twenty-seventh year.
Email Ernst. (April 4, 1999) Written on the eve of the author's 27th birthday