A memory

When my son comes home late,

He sits on my bed

And tells me about his day.

Someday he will remember this

When I will be no more,

When I have had my say

And gone before.

Then I will not exist

As I am now.

This me will be a memory

Of his when I,

Who now am here alone,

Have gone into oblivion.

Remembrance

When I die

Will you be sad that I have gone,

Sad that our friendship has ended,

That our talking is over,

That we have parted?

Remember me.

When I die

Will you be glad that I lived,

Glad that we met,

Glad that we enjoyed so much?

Remember me.

When I die

I leave you love and the sea,

Friendship and all the loveliness of the world.

I bequeath to you, the living,

All joy and all sorrow.

Have courage always,

And sometimes, sometimes,

Remember me.

Eyes

I have a pair of ugly eyes which I often use,

And out of them the sights that I see

Are hard and ugly and hateful and grey.

I see fear and I see lies —

I see killing and I see abuse —

I see blaming and I see misuse —

There is no mistaking the misery that I see.

I have a pair of beautiful eyes which I like to use.

And out of them the sights that I see

Are beautiful and lovely and true.

I see love and babies growing —

I see friendship and oceans flowing —

I see giving and I see creating —

And of the beauty of all there is no mistaking.

The Great Symphony

Looking back down the centuries to the beginning,

If there ever was a beginning,

I hear the great symphony of man and womankind

Playing and replaying its many themes.

Each generation produces its own melodies,

Sees them as unique, as dramatic, as never expressed before,

And yet I hear the same themes, repeating and repeating —

The terrible marches of war and slaughter;

The lullabies of lovers and of mothers and the newly born;

The strong rhythms of the pioneers and the merchants and the builders;

The excitement and sadness of the young;

The disappointments of the old;

The rumble of natural disasters, of flood and famine, fire and earthquake;

And the low song of death, singing its slow counter-theme below them all,

Singing and singing.

Each movement is the same and each is different,

And the heart is broken and the heart is fulfilled,

And the babies become men and women and have their babies

And so it all goes on.

Loneliness and love, failure and success, loss and gain,

Pleasure and pain, again and again.

So it has been, so it is and so it will be,

The great symphony playing itself to itself,

Playing itself to us and to the universe,

Until the last syllable of recorded time,

Or playing, perhaps forever, because it is so true and so painful and so beautiful.

Scatter your words like seeds

Cast your words into the air —

Who knows who will catch their echo?

Cast your words into the fire —

Who knows what strength will be forged?

Scatter your words like seeds over the earth —

Who knows where they will grow?

Toss your words into the waters —

Who knows on what strange shore of the future

They will be found?