The eyes were pursed forever,
no smile nor tears mourned his passing,
and the river flowed undisturbed so grey
green it grew around his fallen form,
like fingers of the Earth encompassing
No bugle sounds, no wails and praising words,
no bolting gun, no veiled glance and no saluting swords,
just the carcass and it's maggot caravan in wait
seek arrival of the rot, carrion flesh to celebrate
How dark is the character of Man?
Alone on this sun blessed day he traversed
without a ponder if such a monstrous plan
to such a glen heaven was truly deserved ?
While the birds sings songs sooth
while the river stirs lovers on its bed,
while the wind blows like uncluttered thought,
what made the Man be dead?
Yet, for Life in him now spurned
the separation began unconcerned...
his Soul to roam,
his Spirit to return,
his body to burn.
Does the Soul see the setting and rising Sun?
Flinch does it and tear at its beloved's sorrow
and does it pray for her brighter tomorrow?
Will the Spirit be one with the Maker?
Or, be the herald of new Life revered
moments before the cord be severed?
Shall we let the body rot?
Unlike His sweetened skin at communion given,
this Life was spent beholding the Sins Seven
Will we ever truly be wise, to stare at Death and see
the dance of the Trichotomy?
Perchance at our chosen hour,
in a similar beloved bower,
us three Kings without conquered lands,
by His faith are accorded the wish to be,
again amongst the multitude or sail out to the starry sea
Till that time, whenever, we chance upon,
the halt of the falling sand,
we shall know his time is done,
But can we fault the character of the Man?
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