You wore the flowers of innocence in your hair
and a white star shone upon your brow.
You spoke with the voice of water meadows
and silver streams and I gathered up your words
like a bee gathers the wisdom of spring and summer.
Autumn made you beautiful
with flaming orange leaves,
with gold and vermillion shadows
cast by a honey-coloured sun.
I held your frail hands in mine
and kissed your pale cheeks and lips.
The gentle fingers of November winds
gathered up the fine white strands of your hair
and set the seal of winter upon you.
My sorrow is a meagre and transient thing:
it demands little and is easily pleased.
It keeps me company on cold winter nights
as I stare into the embers of my fire and remember,
lolling out its long red tongue
and gazing at me occasionally to see if I am still here.
But what is this? It stirs from its comfortable
place at my feet, its red-tipped ears pricking up
as it listens attentively ...
now I hear it also, softly approaching footfalls,
as soft as the evening's new fall
of fine white crystals of snow:
the soft but steady footfalls of Death
as He approaches the door of my cottage
and lifts the old iron latch.
Have the years sped by so swiftly, my old friend?
Is it time already for me to join again
the beloved bride of my youth?
It seems but scants minutes since she left my side...
already I feel the vigour returning
to my gnarled and creaking limbs
as you take me by the hand and lead me to the Door,
to travel the shining watery path of the White River
that leads to the Sun.
Thailand, 1999
and a white star shone upon your brow.
You spoke with the voice of water meadows
and silver streams and I gathered up your words
like a bee gathers the wisdom of spring and summer.
Autumn made you beautiful
with flaming orange leaves,
with gold and vermillion shadows
cast by a honey-coloured sun.
I held your frail hands in mine
and kissed your pale cheeks and lips.
The gentle fingers of November winds
gathered up the fine white strands of your hair
and set the seal of winter upon you.
My sorrow is a meagre and transient thing:
it demands little and is easily pleased.
It keeps me company on cold winter nights
as I stare into the embers of my fire and remember,
lolling out its long red tongue
and gazing at me occasionally to see if I am still here.
But what is this? It stirs from its comfortable
place at my feet, its red-tipped ears pricking up
as it listens attentively ...
now I hear it also, softly approaching footfalls,
as soft as the evening's new fall
of fine white crystals of snow:
the soft but steady footfalls of Death
as He approaches the door of my cottage
and lifts the old iron latch.
Have the years sped by so swiftly, my old friend?
Is it time already for me to join again
the beloved bride of my youth?
It seems but scants minutes since she left my side...
already I feel the vigour returning
to my gnarled and creaking limbs
as you take me by the hand and lead me to the Door,
to travel the shining watery path of the White River
that leads to the Sun.
Thailand, 1999
