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pjthompsonFrom the notebooks, September 7, 1998:
Stephan
At the end he needed so little from me.
Certainly not my tears, my sympathy.
At the end his eyes glistened clear and deep,
already piercing the clouds separating us
from that place beyond dreams, hopes, fears,
pitying us because we could not yet see.
Lightened of greed, and envy, and regret,
he wore our sorrows like a cloak of feathers,
his smile radiant with sadness, the exquisite
illusion of the world fading, fading—here
this moment, then gone. He needed nothing
I had to give, except love. All he had
to give was love . . . and a beautiful pain.
Then that, too, was gone, and only love remains.
©PJ Thompson 2010 - All Rights Reserved
Stephan
At the end he needed so little from me.
Certainly not my tears, my sympathy.
At the end his eyes glistened clear and deep,
already piercing the clouds separating us
from that place beyond dreams, hopes, fears,
pitying us because we could not yet see.
Lightened of greed, and envy, and regret,
he wore our sorrows like a cloak of feathers,
his smile radiant with sadness, the exquisite
illusion of the world fading, fading—here
this moment, then gone. He needed nothing
I had to give, except love. All he had
to give was love . . . and a beautiful pain.
Then that, too, was gone, and only love remains.
©PJ Thompson 2010 - All Rights Reserved
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