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.
No comments:
Post a Comment