Eskhat

Why is the end so often painted 

Violent red and clotted black?

Not with a bang nor with a whimper,

I dream of hearing the peace train's tracks

That Stevens heralded one morn

That broke like gentle eggs of dawn.

When life itself so often dies

With gentle sighs and open eyes,

Why should the universe so vastly differ

That trumpets, wars, and crunches be

The order of the day?

I dream of death in drops and trickles;

No torrent, merely icicles

That lengthen, drip, and wash away

Themselves and mountains in their flow;

The bird that sharply scrapes its beak;

The butterfly across the globe;

I'm waiting on that winding peace train

To come and carry me home.

Now wait with me upon this mountain,

As from the East the first rays shine,

And hold with me my silent vigil;

Shade me with your squinting eyes

As darkness fades and, with it, light

Until the world is bathed in silver--

An ashen grey made sweet and bright;

An ashen grey drawn from the pyre

That sweetly burned my mother's flesh

With milk and coconuts and ghee

And something else...masala? Spice?

We watched the worldwind round her waver-- 

Heat waves blanched the very sun--

And all who walked with me have fallen;

Their day is done, their souls begun

Their effervescence: light, renewing

The promises of atomic clouds.

And thus we fade; the world fades with us,

Not soft, not silent, never loud.

In sleeping deep, I dream of tendrils

That bloom with blossoms from my brain

That float upon the wind and change

The seasons from fair spring to rain

That washes all my cares away.

A sleepy blanket. 

A silent shroud. 

Music made for nighttime...