The Soul

His legs tremble, Standing: over the-mound of dust, He does not see the past left behind And strives to extinguish the brightly burning star Forgetting, that nearby A blue island floats in tears. And a lingering restlessness sweeps past him. He parries the questions of the present Pricking him intermittently Not seeing with the eyes The glowing cinder under ashes The tide is cheated by the foaming sea Which drowns it And wandering in the forlorn cremation ground He is haunted by the shrieks Of his bedeviled soul A formless shadow knocks at his dormant mind. Nothing awakes but anguish Crushing the weary breath, He gasps and fumbles With the rising crescendo of the inner agony, Which pricks him And is irredeemably absorbed in the body, The wound remains green And on the lighted pyre not the body, The bruised conscience burns.