It’s our final sacrifice,
Dying, lying in our linen shrouds,
No embalming, no device
Of preservation, no dead crowds
Of slaves or wives to keep us company
On some long journey into night,
No brass fittings, no mahogany
Encasing us, but wrapped in white
And lowered simply into sand or earth
Then covered gently to the song of sighs,
Each pebble placed a prayer for a rebirth
God owes us for our final sacrifice.

To Tomas De Faoite replying to his questions about Gershon's Bury the Patriarch

by Linda Hepner

Comments (3)

I love poems about dying. These are beautiful words. And yes, death should have it's own dignity, as it does here.
Linda - a beautiful description and poem. Definitely sounds like the way to go, uhm, after you've already went. And a good place to plant a tree. -chuck
Soulful and sombre with a solid sense of dignified acceptance of death as well as confidence in the teachings of your religion concerning what follows (I don't share these beliefs, Lind, but in my view that is wholly irrelevant) . And Lind, visit your private e-mail. Warmest regards, Gina.