The Dead

The Dead As The Living See Them

You are not more living
Because the dead have voice
To beckon men with fear,
And yet you still cling to—

Nor do the living often speak
Of what fell choice the dead have made
Or what brings forth this fear,
And yet we still cling to

This life that sows and grows
And knows nothing of its seasons,
This life that soils and foils us
And gives us no good reason.

There's a strand reaching up to heaven,
A strand reaching down below,
And nothing at all
Here in mid-air
To show us where we go.

We are what we are in the darkness,
We are what we are at the noon—
A star fallen down from the heaven,
A star fallen down too soon.

There's a hope in the heart's confusion,
Blind hope in the heartless dead,
But nothing at all
Here in mid-air
To show what all should know.

We are what we are in the heavens,
We are what we are on the ground—
Starstruck in the dark and stillness,
Dumbstruck by the slightest sound.

You are not more living
Because the dead have strength
To reckon what men fear,
And yet you still cling to—

Nor do the living often speak
Of what great lengths the dead have gone
Or what dispels this fear,
This fear we still cling to.

rcs.

5th draft: 07/15/05
©1980 Ronald C. Southern

---