Colophon

Bede in his scriptorium

A ligature
A telescope
The bathyscaphe descends five miles down

One tear from each of his eyes smears history
One page left to write he'll never witness
One page left to write before the frozen dawn

If I die tomorrow
What difference the type I used?
What if these pages turn to dirt?
What are these words?
What are these words?

New books, as yet unwritten, let them say
"All struggle now forgotten
Don't you see this window of time to program
Amnesty?"

It's not too late to rewrite history
Not too late to save ourselves
Not too late to pull this species
Above, beyond, above, beyond

And home