Sunward the water-lilies turn their eyes,
childlike, like angels done by Raphael;
in grey sludge and wide dusks retained, there dwell
those for whom death did painlessness devise.
And should a lightning storm’s induced osmosis
suck up the lake, the dead will all stand there
in clear blue columns: empty orbits stare
above their grin at grim apotheosis.
To Brahman’s sunlight my thoughts strive to flower;
dusks that rose coolly from the soul’s deep bower
made pain at broken wishes cease to taunt me:
from limbo’s grey a gust of memory
whirls up the past when in a flash I see –
they resurrect; dead wishes come to haunt me.