1956

The unknown is all around us
And all around the unknown are the faces of those who watch
And wait
And stare
And note
And wait
And watch

Whispered words in blank corridors
Nods across crowded rooms to half-remembered strangers
Blank words on a piece of dirt-scored paper
Ashes under ashes and words upon faces upon whispers to the unseen

Between the gaps in the insolent crackles of the radio signals
Dead ghosts filled with other people's memories
And the dreams of the people they pretend to be
'The man who handed you this telephone is a traitor. Kill him.'

The pretence of being intimate with the unknowable
The faith of others held in the bitterness and soft words spoken
Behind the uncertain darkness of their frightened, shifting eyes.