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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=551311" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Elegy For My Father</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">HLF, August 8,1918—August 22,1997</div><div style="margin:10px 0">		“Bequeath us to no earthly shore until<br>		 Is answered in the vortex of our grave<br>		The seal’s wide spindrift gaze towards paradise.”<br>				 —Hart Crane, “Voyages”</div><div style="margin:10px 0">		“If a lion could talk, we couldn’t understand it”<br>			 —Ludwig Wittgenstein</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Under the ocean that stretches out wordlessly<br>past the long edge of the last human shore, <br>there are deep windows the waves haven't opened, <br>where night is reflected through decades of glass.<br>There is the nursery, there is the nanny, <br>there are my father’s unreachable eyes<br>turned towards the window. Is the child uneasy? <br>His is the death that is circling the stars.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In the deep room where candles burn soundlessly<br>and peace pours at last through the cells of our bodies, <br>three of us are watching, one of us is staring<br>with the wide gaze of a wild, wave-fed seal.<br>Incense and sage speak in smoke loud as waves, <br>and crickets sing sand towards the edge of the hourglass.<br>We wait outside time, while night collects courage<br>around us. The vigil is wordless. And you</div><div style="margin:10px 0">watch the longest, move the farthest, besieged by your 	breath, <br>pulling into your body. You stare towards your death, <br>head arched on the pillow, your left fingers curled.<br>Your mouth sucking gently, unmoved by these hours<br>and their vigil of salt spray, you show us how far<br>you are going, and how long the long minutes are, <br>while spiralling night watches over the room<br>and takes you, until you watch us in turn.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Lions speak their own language. You are still breathing.<br>Here is release. Here is your pillow, <br>cool like a handkerchief pressed in a pocket.<br>Here is your white tousled long growing hair.<br>Here is a kiss on your temple to hold you<br>safe through your solitude’s long steady war; <br>here, you can go. We will stay with you, <br>keeping the silence we all came here for. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Night, take his left hand, turning the pages.<br>Spin with the windows and doors that he mended.<br>Spin with his answers, patient, impatient.<br>Spin with his dry independence, his arms<br>warmed by the needs of his family, his hands<br>flying under the wide, carved gold ring, and the pages<br>flying so his thought could fly. His breath slows, <br>lending its edges out to the night.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here is his open mouth. Silence is here<br>like one more new question that he will not answer. <br>A leaf is his temple. The dark is the prayer.<br>He has given his body; his hand lies above<br>the sheets in a symbol of wholeness, a curve<br>of thumb and forefinger, ringed with wide gold, <br>and the instant that empties his breath is a flame <br>faced with a sudden cathedral's new stone.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Annie+Finch">Annie Finch</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=551311" data-title="Elegy For My Father de Annie Finch" data-description="HLF, August 8,1918—August 22,1997

		“Bequeath us to no earthly shore until
		 Is answered in the vortex of our grave
		The seal’s wide spindrift gaze towards paradise.”
				 —Hart Crane, “Voyages”

		“If a lion could talk, we coul..."></div>
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