40. The Dear Departed

 

A voice in the night whispers, ‘Where?’

And the breeze

In the trees

Seems to sigh

To the sky,

‘They are gone in the air;

Like yesterday’s flowers

They have faded and passed!’

And only the fragrance of something most rare,

Only the memory that will outlast

Death itself can save from despair

At the transience of life, of its hours,

In the heart of one who remembers;

Only that from the embers,

When the doused wick ushers the dar,

Can raise any spark.