The night is meant for us to speak
Of eternal things.

Of old and faded photographs,
Of chicory, coffee and great-grandmothers,
Of slow walks through blue and winding hills,
Of shades of a silent summer twilight,
The origins of life,
The origins of the universe,
Or, perhaps, the universes,
Or, befitting this ambitious night,
The origins of love.

And yet we all are here
Tonight to sit and talk
With a cup of tea in hand
Around this crackling fire
Among our friends and lovers
Upon this sandy beach
Beside these rhythmic waves
Beneath that open sky
Below those distant stars,
Where the atoms we are made up of were forged,
To sit and talk and talk
Of politics,
That most brief and transient of all things.