Lazarus           

I read about a father and a mother and a boy,
How the boy was lost—and more than lost, that he is gone—
And how the crush of sorrow, now a few years out, daily seeks to destroy
Their lives—a well-wrought trick, you see, for night hates the dawn
And still trusts the bloody sickle's power to mow down
Even memory, to slice up the heart, spilling all its joy.

Pondering from afar the Holy City, He wept!  And why?
Would He not soon summon all of creation and call out its name?
Perhaps He feared that even He had constraints to apply,
That life is life and then the nothing, and by that no real aim:
So, ah, let Death carry out its will and stake its claim,
As even Love might not overcome a father's brooding and mother's cry ...

The boy drowned. But the memories of his love did not.
And while mother and father wrestle in the night against the black,
Others will pretend those memories are somehow life (they are not!)—
No, life is life uniquely—and only a fool to eternity turns his back,
Having heard the fair story of Love stopping Death's foul attack.
The boy did not die, and isn't truly gone, and cannot be forgot.

© A. M. Siriano, 2010 Jan 20, All Rights Reserved