Elegy of the Setting Sun

The reflection of light in the dew

In a rosebud that is dome to silence

Crowns the windy ripples in a pond

That is to a temple wrapt in darkness

A  ray of light perfumed

In still waters.

In the sad music of the morning breeze carressing the leaves.

What eclipse in shroud of slumber

Cloaks at dawn the sun ?

What primordial Law embraces the form of space

In perpetual darkness

Pierced

Only by the rays of the leaf of the candle flame ?

Those that watered the garden

Did not taste of its pomegranates

But are in earth in the womb of nature,

The tearful drops of dew that drips from the leaves

Do not mourn them.

The path of the sun is clouded by the dark of the moon

Nightfall embraces the flower buds at the hour of descending dawn

Reason slumbers from the motion of many dying ripples

But not in the bust that is a mirror

To the peeble in the sparkling waters.

It is not the painting of the rose in bloom

That breathes a sceptre to the memory of its blossom

But the breeze of the sceptered seed.

Perhaps the winds that pluck the buds of the lilies

Is spirit of beloved but departed fingers

That once heard the flute of natures laughing waters

But now, as kings, live in the notes of its music.

The darkness that is in the tears of the misty clouds

Becomes the springs

And the invisible dew of the evaporating waters

Becomes the army of gathering clouds

That waters the garden of the earth

In dew drops in the waters of eternity.

Rest

In peace.

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