The Last Song

Plucked nubile water lily, dripping drying

River’s last drops dredged from the riverbed,

A drip, a drop, drip-drip drops, crying

A godless, solemn last prayer, lily water shed

Wilting, last teardrops of sweet, sweet river

Water shed, wither flower, wither life, wither.

Plucked strings of a sultry guitar haunted by

The last hand to play a major chord, a minor key,

God’s six veins caressed into its last sigh,

Speaking ancient wisdom, a silent hymn to be

Echoing out of the hollowed wooden curves, four by four,

The immortal drifting to the mortal, soaring, four by four.

It was a song about water lilies, a forgotten song

About the river overflowing whence they belong;

Of the monsoon rain feeding the riverbed,

Of all that once was, of yesterday now dead.

The water lily, the river, the hand that caressed

Long gone. All that remains is the song.

Four by four into the ether,

In search of ears to hear,

To listen, to feel, to belong,

A constant crescendo again and again,

Beginning to end, life, again and again –

Play the song, the last song.