Did someone say that there would be an end,
an end, Oh, an end, to love and mourning?....
Now the dead move through all of us still glowing,
mother and child, lover and lover mated,
are wound and bound together and enflowing.
What has been plaited cannot be unplaited.
Only the strands grow richer with each loss
and memory makes kings and queens of us.
Dark into light, light into darkness, spin.
When all the birds have flown to some real haven,
we who find shelter in the warmth within,
listen, and feel new-cherished, new-forgiven,
as the lost human voices speak through us
and blend our complex love,
our mourning without end.
-- May Sarton
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