It’s been a while since I last went to see
The graves of those who died before I lived.
Though they still lie where they last were, it seems
That I am not the same. How could it be
That I have not found time? Even my dreams
Are dull without the visits of the dead.
Yet why should it be they who visit me,
Whilst I lie in my bed,
Full free to rise if I so choose, yet they
Are pent to rest in theirs till Judgement Day?
But why should mighty mountains care if men
Climb on their backs like swarms of ants, and why
Should open oceans pine for ships to sail
Across their vast immense expanses, when
Infinitude is theirs? Behind the veil
The dead return to whence they came: the Whole.
The Spirit lends its own wholeness to them,
The undiminished soul
In which they swell, and grow, and climb. Why, then,
Should they need us to visit them at all?
Yet men are mountains too, in their own way,
And locked inside each human heart, there lies
A universe, expanding endlessly;
A sun, whose light transcends all night and day.
And every mountain, high as it may be,
Cannot be such without its valley floor;
The deepest depths of every living sea
Are fastened to the shore.
All things by each are granted life, and thus
We need the dead. So too, the dead need us.
16/03/2008
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