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Victory!
By
Enrique Salas-Limon
Silent, as the grave, now make thy tongues;
Shut thy lips and speak no ill, O, little ones.
Tonight, only thy minds shall hence proclaim,
The glory of he who now has a new name.
Leave thy thoughts here upon this earth,
And take now thy spirits, to whence they did birth.
Now, close thine eyes, and picture this,
The beginning of life, no man should miss:
In the beginning, man was fashioned in the womb,
And never did he attain perfection until the tomb!
The flesh breathes its last,
And the spirit is freed from its past!
Unseen by any tear-filled eye,
The spirit ascends beyond the skies.
Above the realm of heaven’s own,
Into the realm of the unknown.
Unknown to all who linger, all who tarry;
Knowing not when they, the wind shall carry.
The wind, what wind rushes though his hands,
And through his feet, white-golden sands!
There is no land, but save the sand, which looks upon the seas;
A vast and boundless ocean, embracing if he please.
From horizon to horizon, the sun, it does not set,
There is no end to meet thy gaze, the waters infinite!
In life he chose the waters, pleading to the brim,
So now the waters churning, wholly swallow him!
To the depths with this fortunate deceased!
Let the waters fill his lungs, as his fathoms do increase.
No more contention, no more strife;
Breathe in these waters, for in them there is life!
Inhale the ocean and swallow the rivers,
Every drop thereof releases the slivers:
Slivers of light, flowing straighter than streams,
More abundant than stars and inferior beams.
A radiant glow, lighting a path;
A journey begins with no need of staff.
Our guided way, now gleams and steps cold,
The light is not fire, but solid pure gold!
No hands have wrought, nor hammers have hewn,
The foundations which hold up this heavenly boon.
Neither diamonds nor rubies, no matter how ample,
Match the shine of thy house; not Solomon’s
With one purpose this house, ‘twere it even a tent,
To begin life that is near, the life that was meant!
So wipe away thy tears, thy loved one’s not ceased;
Know you now where he is? He sits at a feast!
In mirth does his host toast that he died;
For in none but this way do they feast to his bride.
So weep not for he lives, he lives now more than thee!
But pray for the day, for thy own flesh to be freed!
For we do not gather today in the shadows of the undertaker:
But to be witnesses to the union of Man and his Maker!
Dedicated to the memory of
Gene Ayran
