西元2007年02月23日
Black
Black
Black: space of space
And nowhere.
Night against which all day happens,
Sheerly presumed.
But still the etching of the unexpected,
Where between pure meeting of day-colours,
We seem to see Merest twinings of indigo.
Black! Don your mask you are.
Black! Slink back to the tomb.
O Black! Now wrap around your cloak.
Unholy Black! How can you still conspire?
O Black!
How do you bring nothing against things?
How are you also sumptuous night and holy sleep?
by John Milbank
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