Eleven windows burning, Twelve across the square. Thirteen on the corner, Fourteen hanging in the air. I count them as I walk tonight, I count them to be sure. Every light has someone home. Every light means one thing more. Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, A taxi turns and dies. Thirty-nine, the clocks have stopped. Forty-one, no one replies. The streets grow still beneath my feet, The buildings lose their height. I cannot stop. I must go on. I have to count the lights. Sixty-three — I lose my shadow. Seventy — I lose the rain. Eighty-one — I know this street, But I cannot say my name. Someone whispers from above me, Though every room is bare: Who is counting whom tonight? Who is counting there? Ninety-seven. Ninety-eight. The city has no sound. Ninety-nine. The final light Goes black above the ground. One hundred. Nothing. No windows. No street. No sky. Now something starts counting me. One. Two. Three.
