Not all is lost.
Merely a nineteenth summer.
There will be other summers,
other boys,
other books to read.
Not all is lost.
We will invent ourselves again.
Like a low budget theatrical production, we'll play all the parts.
I will be the mortal and the god that kills him.
The rain and the flower that it touches.
Not all is lost.
The sun has not been lit out yet, only hiding.
One day, the sky will be that exact shade of pink.
