Light in light out

A beam of light pierced through our darkness

Making a circle that fitted exactly

The contours of a round table

As if the light was painted there.

It must have come from very far,

For deep we were in our darkness.

And surely just an invisible grain

At its origin, for small was the table.

Small, but neat, white, perfect.

We saw, felt and understood

That to raise our eyes

Was to join the light,

The neat, the white and the perfect.

And see the circle widen.

But to lose our darkness

Was to lose everything

We knew, comprehended and liked!

Why was the light calling?

Did it know us?

Have we had history?

Some wanted to remember!

Some!