Grieving lost loved ones, bearing mute testimony to the power of celebration, and seeing young mothers weep for missing sons; hope of solace is forgotten. The dead hold the living in their grip, and not separation of the grave or passage of time releases their ferocious hold on the hearts who love them; obligation, rest, duty, remorse - only words to ponder the pull the next life has on this one.
Unrelenting observers of life, the dead - harsh judges all - call with the silent song of memory. Bound to the present by a past we cannot relinquish, the dead guile us into believing we live for the now; hiding contentment, punishing the future. Promising nothing, they hold us to our conscience and committment. We beg for release that does not come. Pray for peace that is unattainable. Cry tears that hold nothing save salt and regret.
I want to walk away - leave the past buried in sand and watch the rising tide erase the marks. But I cannot. I am bound to the dead as I am bound in life. We try in vain; alleviate suffering by commemorating a world that has moved on, remember times past with smells and thoughts, prolong agony as penance for the corporeal. But the dead - the numerous, unresting, clever dead - push the stone of this world back into light. With firm steps and unwavering resolve, the dead drag yesterday across time and space. Daily, hourly, they march forward to our future. When will the dead release their hold on the living? When will the buried lie in rest and remit their wanton jealousy of life? When will the future come, leaving the world in its true and fixed place?
Unrelenting observers of life, the dead - harsh judges all - call with the silent song of memory. Bound to the present by a past we cannot relinquish, the dead guile us into believing we live for the now; hiding contentment, punishing the future. Promising nothing, they hold us to our conscience and committment. We beg for release that does not come. Pray for peace that is unattainable. Cry tears that hold nothing save salt and regret.
I want to walk away - leave the past buried in sand and watch the rising tide erase the marks. But I cannot. I am bound to the dead as I am bound in life. We try in vain; alleviate suffering by commemorating a world that has moved on, remember times past with smells and thoughts, prolong agony as penance for the corporeal. But the dead - the numerous, unresting, clever dead - push the stone of this world back into light. With firm steps and unwavering resolve, the dead drag yesterday across time and space. Daily, hourly, they march forward to our future. When will the dead release their hold on the living? When will the buried lie in rest and remit their wanton jealousy of life? When will the future come, leaving the world in its true and fixed place?
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