To each people has there turned a guide
The [point of the] worship [which] they indicate is you.
Hidden from all
I will speak to you without words.
No one but you will hear my story
Even if I tell it in the middle of the crowd.
It would be picturesque to go
Against a marigold sky up in smoke
With glee-inflamed logs, a Brahmin’s heedless
Mantra and stench-killing incense.
So release oneself
To another incarnation, to be cast
In a final handful to
A river clogged with washed out sins.
Or one could slide into
An incinerator and come out packed
In a box, to be forgotten in an attic
Or disposed hurriedly of in a plot.
It would be colorful to go
Gonged down long streets with wailing
Relatives in sacks and gaudy paper houses,
Cardboard cars by the yard
And money in wads,
Paper pagodas to light joss-sticks in,
And all luxuries
Fire could burn to another world.
To be left for vultures to pick
At leisure, leaving only
A shovel full of bones on the tower
Would be silent perpetuation.
Or one could credit All to an archaeologist.
For millennium’s stand almost like oneself,
Painted, attended, surrounded by serpent richness.
But the cleanest, cheapest way
Is to be buried where nothing irks,
Where grass covers, the berry sends
Down roots and the worm world works.
“I have waited for this opportunity for more than half a century,
to repeat to you once again my vow of eternal fidelity and everlasting love.”
It has made me better loving you …
it has made me wiser, and easier, and brighter.
I used to want a great many things before,
and to be angry that I did not have them.
Theoretically, I was satisfied.
I flattered myself that I had limited my wants.
But I was subject to irritation;
I used to have morbid sterile
hateful fits of hunger, of desire.
Now I really am satisfied,
because I can’t think of anything
better.”
The Portrait Of A Lady by Henry James