Even the hollow reed voices across sand, dry plains,
startling lilt, notes we can remember.
We can forget. Forgetting is our salvation,
When memory is destroyed, we are spared
No further life.
Peace be with you.
With you, Father.
To each the choice, known, unknown, of what the
heart can render. Rending forever, keeping us
worn, sworn to earth, dust.
Do not erect stones for me, they would keep me
company. I did not have companionship in
life, why plague the stones at sunset?
Cover me with thorns, as in life, one reed,
one drum. I clutch music of death,
no salvation, yet reincarnation.
You are in peace. Let me.
Who would leave their bed of winter's night
to light dark's ice with wax candle?
Not you, priest...
bound by law to the body, not soul's grief
Bound to limit the soul in one direction.
Denial of reed and drum leads voices,
in canto, to ceilings.
Never twice on key.
To each a choice...thorn, dulled thorn.
What redemption after salvation?
Can salvation be redeemed?
Must it, should it, by who's hand...
long the vine, short the rose.
Together...vining rose of headstones
rendering hollowness in winter's
For you who remember...
Copyright © Elysabeth Faslund