"Just follow on?" by Ravin Caldera

Where are you?

Now, you mean?

I don't know!

I looked at the winding roads

on a dividing pike

as far as I could see

No end at sight

Then, took the least interested

I felt, it felt, rather,

I am something - I am nothing

I am everything - for a moment!

Just follow on - as far as it takes

Where does it go?

No one knows, I suppose . . .

Just follow on - to the end . . .

as far as I could see,

as far as I could go

as far as it goes

But, is there an end?

No, I suppose not!

whining, whining, whining . . .

Why whines all along?

Just follow on -just follow on . . .

No end at sight!

are we lost?

I don't know!

Just follow on . . .

This is my very first poem in English. I hope the readers will enjoy and made a comment about it. Thanks!

An Arundel Tomb by Philip Larkin

Side by side, their faces blurred,

The earl and countess lie in stone,

Their proper habits vaguely shown

As jointed armour, stiffened pleat,

And that faint hint of the absurd—

The little dogs under their feet.

Such plainness of the pre-baroque

Hardly involves the eye, until

It meets his left-hand gauntlet, still

Clasped empty in the other; and

One sees, with a sharp tender shock,

His hand withdrawn, holding her hand.

They would not think to lie so long.

Such faithfulness in effigy

Was just a detail friends would see:

A sculptor’s sweet commissioned grace

Thrown off in helping to prolong

The Latin names around the base.

They would not guess how early in

Their supine stationary voyage

The air would change to soundless damage,

Turn the old tenantry away;

How soon succeeding eyes begin

To look, not read. Rigidly they

Persisted, linked, through lengths and breadths

Of time. Snow fell, undated. Light

Each summer thronged the glass. A bright

Litter of birdcalls strewed the same

Bone-riddled ground. And up the paths

The endless altered people came,

Washing at their identity.

Now, helpless in the hollow of

An unarmorial age, a trough

Of smoke in slow suspended skeins

Above their scrap of history,

Only an attitude remains:

Time has transfigured them into

Untruth. The stone fidelity

They hardly meant has come to be

Their final blazon, and to prove

Our almost-instinct almost true:

What will survive of us is love.

Philip Larkin, “An Arundel Tomb” from Collected Poems.