It was in the white of the year
That Father left the Multiverse
But death was a sweet hour
OF faith and dazzled face
For Time and God to converge
Or that Ethereal zone to confide
No longer to be confined on Earth
And little self and tea for beggars
With sons and friends to hold
One’s life, and to hold the ears
Of memory and all that was left unsaid
Unknown, private for paradise
The soul should know what the body doubted
The heart remains silent to fend off grief
The dying need but little, dear !
The inner room is where it is said
We forget our name for Good
The self is but a collection of choices
Some temporary disease of identity
How trivial the flesh, the spirit
Lives eternally, in wood and words
In a hush of prayer that blankets everything.
Wuji Seshat 