My craft takes me
through
swift waters
to places
I am wont
to go.
In the distance
now is heard
the drone
of the
mourners.
My ears
strain at the
sound of
their dirge.
With their cymbals
and
their drums
they will
beat out
the days of
your life.
With their chants
they will
tell of the
worth
of your being.
In their waters
I will
wash my silent
sorrow
until all
their voices cease,
until all their
instruments
have no sound.
My brother,
my brother.
How shall I
walk the
earth
without you?
After a thousand
suns have
risen
and every eagle
has flown free,
after I am
quenched,
I will cross
the waters
and
depart this place
with your
name
on my lips.
© Nita Walker Boles
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