We are alone, one hilltop closer to the sun,
and yet perhaps one moment from eternity.
Quickly almost as in prayer our hands meet,
and yet these hands are not our hands, but
prophets join to oracle the end,
and it's almost here.
Sally, if you must believe while I am gone,
believe in rain and children.
Name this hillside tomorrow an
d meet me here in memory.
Take what remnants of
our dreams are left
and cherish them for my return.
And last of all,
Sally, for always,
love me.
Things end.
It is the nature of the universe.
Eiffel
Towers twist and fracture.
Nor is there
a stay of execution for the leaves
at autumn's end.
She cannot think of him as dead,
and so
she thinks of him as summer.
She will not mourn him.
He is living still.
She will not call him
dead, nor will she gather small
mementos and start labeling them him.
For
Jamie was always
mourning to her, without its tired grief,
its acrid taste, and utter lack of reason.
And she has seen the sun again.
It blinds her, though she hides her eyes.
Now it is
more as if her flesh were marble,
animated by a will to die.
She shall not die,
but will have come to know death better.
Soft blow the sum mer winds, where
Jamie lies,
he won't have to fight again.
Sally, don't you cry
He won't have to fight again
Sally, don't you cry
Soft blow the summer winds where
Jamie lies,
she won't have to fight again,
Jamie's dead.
Sally is dead.
you