We moved on from intimations
To whispers in the dead of night.
Old man poet would see a bone
Under pneumatic Russian bust.
Death danced in timeless bone.
It was intimations of mortality.
But to all these calcinated bones
We see love and poems clinging
As if the calcium has still a fever
Much after pneumatic bliss goes.
(Reading T.S.Eliot’s poem “Whispers of Immortality”)