"I watch my daughter place the flowers
Over me; wipe a tear, and smile;
The smile, more effulgent than the flowers,
Lingers on; The smile matters;
The smile that can alter the scent of death.
Not a Sunday she has missed, ever;
Not a Sunday when I haven’t watched her sit
By me, and talk about the love of her life
And smile demurely; I wish she knew
I listened to her; I wish she knew how I
Loved to see her in the lovely yellow frock
And how I wish she hadn’t coloured her locks;
I am alive, now, for I watch her fall asleep into
The bosom of womanhood; I am just
Invisible, to the eyes that still carry tears;
Death is the finality; This I had known and believed;
The decisiveness in it; the conclusiveness;
But in death did I realise the worth of living;
And that none in the world mattered, but
The ones who call me back.”
“My daughter, if you are listening, I shall never be
Too asleep to watch you run your fingers
Over the name of your father;
I see the same moon, the same stars
In the dark of this unruffled night;
And I wish I could tell you the names
Of those who have forgotten how they look;
So varied are their masks; But you must
Stand tall, in the masquerade, and smile;
You need not a disguise, but the wisdom
To identify one; For not all shall cry after
One leaves; I know, I have seen.
You must have ears to listen to one self
For you won’t find a better teacher.
And finally, my dear, you must pour
All of your goodness into your child;
For one day all shall know how rare, and precious,
True tears on a grave really are.”
The prosaic strokes of her brush made her see The truth she had been trying to bury. "I can paint anything, Jim, but you," she whispered. "I have spent too much time trying to paint your eyes, While the real ones watched me from a distance. And like the end of an evanescing dream you faded And became the white of this canvas I cannot fill. Death, like you said, is just another colour from my box. Tell me, why can't my brush find your face? Have I buried the scent of your love too deep Under the stench of my paints? Will this empty canvas never show me your face And calm the storms in my sundry selves? Give me the strength, Jim, to face you again; To look you in the eye and ask if the sun Shines bright on the other side. Help me find The colour of death in my box, so that You can see me, once again, as I paint you."
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