#a fantasy

Her voice is like clear water

That drips upon a stone

In forests far and silent

Where Quiet plays alone.

Her thoughts are like the lotus

Abloom by sacred streams

Beneath the temple arches

Where Quiet sits and dreams.

Her kisses are the roses

That glow while dusk is deep

In Persian garden closes

Where Quiet falls asleep.

By Louise Glück

I'll tell you something: every day

people are dying. And that's just the beginning.

Every day, in funeral homes, new widows are born,

new orphans. They sit with their hands folded,

trying to decide about this new life.

Then they're in the cemetery, some of them

for the first time. They're frightened of crying,

sometimes of not crying. Someone leans over,

tells them what to do next, which might mean

saying a few words, sometimes

throwing dirt in the open grave.

And after that, everyone goes back to the house,

which is suddenly full of visitors.

The widow sits on the couch, very stately,

so people line up to approach her,

sometimes take her hand, sometimes embrace her.

She finds something to say to everbody,

thanks them, thanks them for coming.

In her heart, she wants them to go away.

She wants to be back in the cemetery,

back in the sickroom, the hospital. She knows

it isn't possible. But it's her only hope,

the wish to move backward. And just a little,

A longing for the Vivid Dreams of a place where you feel that you belong, flooding our minds a momentary rest from our realities, nevertheless like vapour vanishes over a short time