The poet's dead: the summer wind is sere
off of the desert. Wither, grass and tree
within this crisping wind, and mayhaps we
who gather close to remember him will near
some state of grateful peace. The wind may die
in time, to turn to other quarters, change
by night--the gulfs between are dark, we range
from star to star by sight in dream and lie,
but the past live still within our hearts,
perhaps. Who knows? The dead rturn to toil
within the souls of living hearts that breathe
the sum of strange, unearthly-natured arts,
perhaps. Who knows who hates this world, its moil,
the crisping winds, the need to needlessly grieve.
The poet's dead at last, the voice is still
forever. Never may we say we know
his heart alike our own. The echoes flow
to die at last to silence; silence will
remain his monument, grave. Cease to say
his mortal name: he'll come no more to call,
and silence falls forever holy, falls
like night and ice on life, which drifts away.
Listen, the echoes dim at last. They fail.
Why fight the night? Why turn to take the side
of fleeting breath till death at last? Why try
to say no justice lives, why try to rail
against injustice? None exists. The tide
has flowed, it ebbs forever, for all die.
The summer wind is sere in mourning, wild
with the grief of gods, dry with the heat of death
whose breath decays, and glance breaks down. Whose breath
is scorpion, snake, pain. No man nor child
nor woman lasts past this, the wind is dry
as breath of desert demons, shrieking shrill
with wordless voices, ever fierce and ill
of heart. For all fail, fade, decay, all die.
Shall we thus mourn? Mayhaps. We shall not mourn
for those we knew not, nor loved; those we hate
shall be mourned, say, with fitting rituals never:
shall we thus mourn? Mayhaps. All hearts were