Where do they go?
I speak not of the dead,
Who are but fallen
Leaves of a tree;
I speak not of places
That no one has seen,
Or of what we will see
When done with living;
I speak not of things
That we call mystic,
But of the mysteries
That we claim to know;
I speak not of souls
That no longer can stay,
Because it is their time
To be eternally born,
Souls that rise to heavens
With angels by their side,
Or fall deep down into pits
With sins to fuel the fire;
I speak not of things
That we know are true,
But of truth that prevails
And is unknown;
I speak not, dear friend,
Of desires and dreams,
But of what is needed
And should be dreamt;
I speak not of things
That our mind pictures,
Or the presence of mind
In our substantial brain.
What I speak of
Is that drop of rain,
Parted from clouds,
That falls in sea;
Beautiful, that sea,
Where exiled unite;
Thus treacherous
Like a wounded beast,
And moon up there;
Oh, Belle of the night!
Among stars, her abode,
She strengthens the sea!
Brushing past our face,
This zephyr, unseen,
Thus strokes our hair
And stirs the leaves…
Where do they go,
The souls that are chained,
Though lighter than air
Which can’t be shackled?
I speak not of roses,
Thus coloured by blood,
But of blood that, somehow,
Smells the same;
I speak not of things,
Beauty to our eyes,
But of beauty itself
When destroyed…
I speak not of people
Killed in cold blood
By the tyrants who fear
Even a stone in my hand.
I speak, dear angel,
Of the likes of you
Who disappear, forever,
In the shadows of hills…
