That one
to whom you bid farewell,
with so many loving goodbyes
has died.
Do not resurrect him and his
grinding suffering.
He was an egg, who needed
to be smashed and beaten
in order to bake my
Birthday cake.
Inside the cake, billions of air
pockets, empty voids filled with
galaxies; this cake is
Nothing.
He was an imp, under the pounding
feet of Nataraj. I am a tree, with
roots set deep in the Mother, tender branches which
Quiver below the jeweled hand of the
Father, and in place of the trunk,
An endless waterfall flowing ever
Up.
Three dimensional time moves only
Forward, and this blessing is most fruitfully bestowed on
the dead. Let them have their victories,
let them celebrate their culmination,
and let us sit on this
tiny ball of dust, rolling across the
flagstones and
watch the Sun and the Moon come
out to play.
