This Last Turn of Our Mind

He sold his soul and did not ask a thing –

Brave Faust, I know him well – inside

The solaces that metaphysics bring,

We live together, talk, turn, steep and hide.

“Perhaps some tea,” I say to him betimes;

“Lapsang souchong,” he smokily suggests;

“It’s ten o’clock,” repeat the mantel’s chimes;

“So not yet twelve,” time equally protests.

“More talk perhaps, one last investigation

Of this turned that, the world does turn, you know;”

“From me you’ll get to that no protestation –

What will it do without us when we go?”

We sold our souls, and now we leave behind,

At twelve o’clock, this last turn of our mind.