We wept, we prayed, we stood vigil
Pressed our heads against the grilled hospital gate
Hoping some movement inside
Would signal positive tidings
...
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Here I differ.... differ respectfully! You may include me among the scoundrels....but I am grown enough to admit that the world cannot exist sans some Supreme Intelligence! Man is so helpless...! !
Now, Alas! There is talk Of a resurrection, reincarnation Your promised return To the darkness of our ignorance To enact another play For us to foolishly devour With eyes that are blind To the light that lights the stage......fantastic imagination. A beautiful poem. Excellent collocation. Many thanks.
I like this tribute to your mentor because it describes how you were thrown back upon your own resources by his death, which is exactly what he would have hoped. Your language always sparkles, such as when you describe yourself as /morbidly rationalistic/ when he first came to your village. MORBID indeed, because rationality too often KILLS our ability to identify with the great intelligence that is required for the world to exist. Presumably you got past that /erstwhile scoundrel/ stage, and looking back it was the instructive example of people like him that helped to open your eyes. Now your screen of consciousness registers the responses of self and others to the whole death process. You witness and feel the limited, grasping responses, but you can also adopt a perspective not bound to surface forms. This is a good way of paying tribute to what your mentor represented.