I thought there would be a grave beauty, a sunset splendour In being the last of one’s kind: a topmost moment as one watched The huge wave curving over Atlantis, the shrouded barge Turning away with wounded Arthur, or Ilium burning. Now I see that, all along, I was assuming a posterity Of gentle hearts: someone, however distant in the depths of time, Who could pick up our signal, who could understand a story. There won’t be. Between the new Hembidae and us who are dying, already There rises a barrier across which no voice can ever carry, For devils are unmaking language. We must let that alone forever. Uproot your loves, one by one, with care, from the future, And trusting to no future, receive the massive thrust And surge of the many-dimensional timeless rays converging On this small, significant dew drop, the present that mirrors all. ~
I had learned already many of the Outland methods of communicating by forest notes rather than trust to the betraying, high-pitched human voice.
None of these was of more use to me than the call for refuge. If any Outlier wished to be private in his place, he raised that call, which all who were within hearing answered.
Then whoever was on his way from that placed hurried, and whoever was coming toward it stayed where he was until he had permission to move on.