[The following is a chapter from Dr. Julie Ponesse’s new book “Our Last Innocent Moment.”]
Nobody sees it happening, but the architecture of our time
Is becoming the architecture of the next time….
Time slips by; our sorrows do not turn into poems,
And what is invisible stays that way. Desire has fled,
Leaving only a trace of perfume in its wake,
And so many people we loved have gone,
And no voice comes from outer space, from the folds
Of dust and carpets of wind to tell us that this
Is the way it was meant to happen, that if we only knew
How long the ruins would last we would never complain.
