Everything passes over their heads,
just as everyone passed before them.
And their foreheads flower with worms.
Everything is nourished in its own time.
And everyone has trouble with the hours.
Without a picture there is no face. Without
a body, the name given is unknowable.
History moves on to the next war and to the next.
The day’s task is always the same; nothing hurries it.
That is why the hour is familiar and unfamiliar.
And the list of names doesn’t bother
with the elements, doesn’t notice the cold,
doesn’t notice the heat. And the list
of names no longer hungers or desires.
It is a just list. Malraux thought,
and fate leads us to our inevitable defeat.