by Luis G. Dato
We are the memory of past desire,
The sighs from old, forgotten agonies,
We are the embers of a muffled fire,
Entombed, yet breathing with the centuries.
At sunset, when the clouds with bitter tears,
Spread out their pinions bidding earth goodbye,
We are the hues from unremembered years,
That tinge your fancies; and the heavens dye.
We are the voices of the darkling night,
When winds in slumber with the flowers drowse,
We murmur by you in your hid delight,
The mystic whisper, witness to your vows.
There is a glow with every risen dawn,
That kindle skies to tiaras built of cloud,
Our hands have all the errant sunbeams strewn,
The clouds are fragments of our unseen shroud.
We are the dead, the guardians of your pain,
Who shed for you, invisible, hot tears,
We are the memory of the myriad slain,
Entombed, immortal from the dust of years.