A Caravan-sarai

Do not cry my love, pray do not,
Over this mass of rotting flesh,
The withered bones, coagulated blood,
These leftovers that were never me.

Instead, some roses in early bloom,
A bottle of your favourite wine,
A pack of cigarettes, if you please,
A book of verse with just a few
of your letters folded within its yellowing pages-
Bid farewell to me with these, if you will,
Perhaps a gentle touch, a wistful smile as well.

For death is merely a caravan-sarai,
A brief rest for the weary soul,
To heal its sores and be whole once more,
To survive its journey on the road again.

Do not shed any tears my love,
On this road through the web of destiny,
We shall meet again, in some caravan-sarai,
On some other bend in the road, further ahead,
Save your tears for when the odyssey ends,
And the soul is freed from the chains of fate,
When meetings and partings have lost all meaning,
And love is a relic left at the last milestone.