I surprised myself yesterday evening that even after all these years — these decades — I still weep when this song plays…
And made me recall this memorial of past, gone friends from all those past, gone years:
Victims of the Plague
(for the lost boys)
Perhaps our dances, in a thousand years,
Will patterned be as drums.
Our bright minds, forged by fate,
Will in the musk of eons drown.
Our souls will all rise glorified
As a pod of whales weaves waves.
Our flesh, once firm, relaxed as stones
That serve to mark our graves.
Our pleasures seen as ancient rites
Describable as dreams;
Our voices, in a million years,
Insubstantial as starbeams.
Perhaps our minuets, in a billion years,
Will as steel stiffened be.
Our arabesques as smooth and gestural
As paintings of the sea.
Our nods but inclinations
Of the folds beneath the eyes.
Our plans but vague intentions
Of the winds beneath the skies.
Our breath, a transpiration
Of dust immured in dust.
Our lives, a visitation
Of a rushlight drowned in musk.
Perhaps our words and scattered songs,
May come, in time, to less than naught,
As Mayan blocks of hand hacked stone
Embalm the skin we once sloughed off.
But now, like rattles kept within
A jeweled bone box, our hollowed skin
Is shaken in the center of the park
To frighten schoolboys after dark.