A Time of Mourning

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It is a time of mourning, for most at least,
to honour a life so true, full of light;
the hall overfilled with earnest souls,
pouring forth wishes, condolences,
beating hearts synchronised in prayer,
the steady rhythm of the gong, of monk’s
song, as we grapple with the inevitable,
what we hoped not to be, and yet.

I remember the last time I held your hand,
your spirits so high, defying your frame;
I remember the first memory I hold,
holding your hand, trusting in your grasp,
what I returned home with that day,
has since been resting precious on my bed;
I remember so much and wish that there
were more still to remember, and yet.

The rain falls as I pen these lines; the circle
of life sees us returning to the earth as we
first entered it, becoming ashes, stardust
once again; as the Buddhists believe,
what goes around, comes around, and I
shall see you in the morning light that shines,
the evening breeze that blows, in eternal
peace; it is a time of mourning, and yet.

– Agnes Chew

 

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