"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.”
Watching the palette, spoke a bemused Richard Brown "Must I pour bright red all over your gown ? Make a soporific colour for your half closed eyes With thick oil and paints to blend your lies. Just above your temples a scintilla of violet And your cheeks below dry, no, maybe a little wet; The tranquil shade of the smile on your lips Hiding behind your nonchalant golden hair wisps..." The brushes of Richard Brown danced along And the cerulean composition became a song He watched beauty carve out of creative stains And from terra incognita came rushing his pains Washing his brush, said he in a voice weak : "Elizabeth, there's a promise you failed to keep. For now, you are looking into my eyes, straight A thousand years is perhaps a long wait In this picture shall I watch your eyes Never losing those dreams over the endless skies Look, your lips are red, brighter than the rose The song's been written, the diary's 'bout to close..." Standing up, Richard...
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