We wished that we passed,
That we could pass—coins
On our tongues, spells, hymns,
Springs safe to drink from,
Not safe to drink from,
White trees here or there,
Shades who serve as guides,
Mead or wheat or rice
Or slaves or slain wives,
Baked clay men at arms,
Long boat, best-loved horse—
Oh, how much we wish
It were such a trip,
But a tomb’s a stop,
Not horse, cart, or boat,
And the flesh lies still
To rot or dry out.
We did not, do not,
Will not pass. We go.
We’re gone. Strange to know,
When all else must pass—
We do get to go.
We do. We don’t pass;
There’s no trip. We’re not
Like the rest. We go,
And we’re gone. We’re blessed.
