The Last Unicorn

We are not always what we seem, and hardly ever what we dream.

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What is plucked will grow again,
What is slain lives on,
What is stolen will remain
– What is gone is gone.

What is sea-born dies on land,
Soft is trod upon.
What is given burns the hand
– What is gone is gone.

Here is there, and high is low;
All may be undone.
What is true, no two men know
– What is gone is gone.

Who has choices need not choose.
We must, who have none.
We can love but what we lose
– What is gone is gone.

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When I was alive, I believed — as you do — that time was at least as real and solid as myself, and probably more so. I said ‘one o’clock’ as though I could see it, and ‘Monday’ as though I could find it on the map; and I let myself be hurried along from minute to minute, day to day, year to year, as though I were actually moving from one place to another. Like everyone else, I lived in a house bricked up with seconds and minutes, weekends and New Year’s Days, and I never went outside until I died, because there was no other door. Now I know that I could have walked through the walls. (…) You can strike your own time, and start the count anywhere. When you understand that — then any time at all will be the right time for you.

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