A Song in Subtitles

The timeless shadow, infinite of reach,
Declines in time from silence into speech.

You, idol of our finite time and place,
Who spoke me, accent wholly without grace,

My common need and its specific steps,
Repeat them still, but only move your lips;

And all your motions, gauche or over-trained,
I have remembered. I have freed, restrained.

Such eloquence as they have now is mine.
It is the art these actors, grown pure line,

Attain through being mute; and their myth, you,
So much more pre-existent now, seem too;

Until the simple gesture (more is less)
Brings back the other side of consciousness;

And they and we, in silence beyond sound,
Re-enter what is there, or is not found.