LAST CYCLE © 2008
The ashes divided into seven lamps,
Drift, floating in the fine currents.
Destiny carries them, without haste, unaware,
That the end, at dusk, is merely a rebirth.
It is a gentle scale, a new note vibrating,
In the heart that begins to sing in tears.
In the grave, the song echoes, not as a lament,
But in rejoicing for life, a moment.
A serene melody, mild, so pure,
Like a child’s caress, sweet tenderness.
The hand that soothes the tired face,
In the novena, where love is sacred.