It isn’t only the immediate pain, It is the acquired pain That troubles and torments the pockets of the mind With its terrible, unending energy, Of memories that hurt and burn, scald and bite, Feeding on our disasters, Growing fat and greedy on our cataclysmic tragedies.
At least, this is what we think As we survey the wreckage behind us And the very uncertain structure that lies ahead, Of a life that has somehow accommodated A train crash of gargantuan proportions, Or, maybe, to others, a bump of Lilliputian dimensions Blown up like a balloon.
Until that fretful thinker suddenly says, ‘Ah, sod it,’ and finally lets the whole of it float away, To leave behind a nice, clean life sheet to scribble on. Oh, what joy to start again. To forgive as many times as we need to.
These mountains enfold peace. All that can be heard are the far away sounds of birds and water, the sound of the wind, and the rattling of loose stones as they are dislodged by even the most careful feet. Then, quite suddenly, a jet aircraft screams through the sky, weaves around, swooping so close until you’re convinced they’ve come to give you a lift, then they’re gone. And we look at the eagles hovering, balancing on the air, letting the silence return.
It is wild up here. The wind and the rocks and the dry grass Do not care Who sees them, Nor how far you have come.
They are going nowhere. They can wait Until you have gone.
But when you’ve gone, Like silk, The rocks will tumble Into lovely shapes.
A veil, A waterfall, A plume of stones To lie on the dry, dry, grass. Making the mountain beautiful.
When it’s all over bar the shouting, When the last tear has fallen And the shocked heart has settled Once more to its beating. When the requiem for the lost Has played its final bleak murmuring And sorrow brings the broken to their knees, That is when all that is left is love, Love is all that is left.
But what good is left-over love To the shattered heart? What good is hope Lying broken in the darkness?
Out of the darkness come the rains To fill the dry beds of rivers With water moving silky as young women sleeping, Rolling and twisting, twisting and turning, Their long bony feet stretching thinly behind them; When trees come to leaf like young men leaping Up branches to touch the first floor of heaven, Strong hands full of leaves, now full of flowerings And dry deserts blooming.
So when all is said and done, The requiem over and silence soft fallen. That is when all that is left is love And love is all.