The Separation

Father died when was a child, only thirteen And I abandoned that house, though death had not found him there. I should go back there sometimes Sit by the old window again And look out into the hard unmoving mountain He never told me why that direction was so attractive And I was too spellbound with his recollections to ask him Did he even see them? How could he, so deep in each reflection? And if sombody saw that old rocker will they know How to a child that god looked down below And I was more than mortal then Measuring his steps with mine Following where his voice bid me travel Parting ther curtains of his time, And that rocker in its place, to and fro, to and fro Was always moving but would not go They have no taste, no tolerance for old things these days And probably the house is long pulled down Something about history frightens the young Something too desolate for me to see Since I must own it now, its indirect legacy Yet, why have I not gone there yet, why Is the graves, the hollow memories, is it fear I may look into the mountain and behold there What a wise man must never wish to understand?