The Widening Gyre
“Nothing was born;/Nothing will die;/All things will change.”
“All things were born,/Ye will come never more,/For all things must die.”
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
“I hate you!”
Child and mother stand
Frozen in their stances –
The child’s gaze is toward
The Moon, and he cannot articulate
What he feels; he has no words yet.
He has no words but
He knows now, somehow,
That one day there will be no more sun.
He has no words, not even
“Hate”, really, but now he knows
The the Moon will die.
It will die, and he knows
He will be the one to crush it in his fist.
The mother cannot look at her son.
To her, the sun is dead,
All the rivers in the world
Have ceased their endless courses.
She heard the word hate and suddenly, like Narcissus,
She saw herself,
Not in a river, however, but in her son.
Nothing will die; all things will die.
The son hates;
The mother despairs;
All things will die, but nothing dies,
As long as one is alive.
Nothing will die; all things will die –
This is the final tension.
And the final answer?
There is no rebirth without death,
No rain on greener grass
Without the thunderhead;
No brighter dawn without the brazen moon.