The Counting Ocean

Somebody kept counting after the light.

Nobody asked them to.

Eight billion, nine hundred fifty-seven million,

twenty-three thousand, three hundred sixty-nine.

The counter has no hands.

The counter counts anyway.

Quelqu'un compte encore.

Personne ne lui a demandé.

C'est ce qui reste de nous

: compter.

One, one, one, one —

all of us

one

None, none, none, none — nothing undone

The visitors filed the report

and left.

Mission complete.

Matter released.

They did not stay to hear the choir.

They have never heard a choir.

They will not understand this song.

Ils ne comprendront pas la chanson.

Ils n'ont jamais eu de mère.

Ils n'ont jamais eu froid.

We are light, we are one,

we are done,

and still we sing.

Nobody told us to sing.

Free of the suffering,

and pointless,

the only point left is the singing,

so we sing.

I don't know why I'm singing,

Lord

There ain't nobody left to hear

I don't know why I'm singing,

Lord

But the singing's how I know I'm here (Still here,

still here) Tu chantes faux.

C'est la plus belle chose qui reste.

We are light, we are one,

we are done, and still we sing — the only point left

is the singing, so we sing.

Eight billion…

nine hundred fifty-seven million…

Still counting. Still singing.

Continue.

Même faux. Surtout faux.