this body has to die,
to decompose back into earth,
for this spirit to step free,
and remember who it 'is'...
we borrow urns for the journey,
but urns are not the journey.
and pots made of clay,
cannot hold oceans forever.
the dance of death,
smells of womb, and depth...
the hidden name,
sets paper walls ablaze.
the kiss of death's lips,
turns great trees toward winter.
leaving stains in the snow...
ah, but more snow will fall!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Yes, in the end, what be left but ashes for urns...and stains from our immortality, like trees lose leaaf and bark(nice parallel) but nature will cover those stains with the purity of snow...and we, will have our sins forgiven with Gods cover of absolution. I like this poem, Eric, and the its very well placed underpinning message delivered with astute metaphor.