Pantoum in a time of crisis

Pantoum: a poem of any length, composed of four-line stanzas in which the second and fourth lines of each stanza serve as the first and third lines of the next stanza. The last line of a pantoum is often the same as the first.

I lived, then,
mostly by night.
But waiting for the day,
I slept through its light.

Mostly by night,
my heyday passed unseen –
I slept through its light,
obsessed with what had been.

My heyday passed onscreen,
people were out of touch.
Obsessed with what had been,
tomorrow didn’t mean much.

People were out of touch
(when thousands died each evening,
tomorrow didn’t mean much).
There were many forms of grieving.

Thousands died each evening.
I stopped listening to the news.
There were many forms of grieving
all the things I knew I’d lose.

I stopped listening to the news.
I was a lucky one.
All the things I knew I’d lose
had time yet to be done.

“I was a lucky one,”
said those who knew history
had time yet to be done.
How it happens is a mystery.

Say those who know history,
“There was worse, there will be better,
how it happens is a mystery.
You’ll learn regret – a relentless debtor.”

There was worse? There will be better?
Each age fills with its own infinities,
I learned. Regret, a relentless debtor,
collects the ousted possibilities.

Each age fills with its own infinities
of problems yet to be solved.
Collecting the ousted possibilities
won’t make you absolved.

Of problems yet to be solved
I know few solutions
that will make you absolved.
(Talk, again, of revolutions).

I know few solutions
to my dreams at night.
Talk again of revolutions;
tomorrow brings another fight.

To my dreams at night:
I ask you to save me a drink.
Tomorrow brings another fight,
and leaves me little time to think.

So I ask you, there, to save me a drink,
as I wait for the day
when I look back and think:
I lived then.