An old grave hidden away at the foot of a deserted hill,
Overrun with rank weeds growing unchecked year after year;
There is no one left to tend the tomb,
And only an occasional woodcutter passes by.
Once I was his pupil, a youth with shaggy hair,
Learning deeply from him by the Narrow River.
One morning I set off on my solitary journey
And the years passed between us in silence.
Now I have returned to find him at rest here;
How can I honor his departed spirit?
I pour a dipper of pure water over his tombstone
And offer a silent prayer.
The sun suddenly disappears behind the hill
And I’m enveloped by the roar of the wind in the pines.
I try to pull myself away but cannot;
A flood of tears soaks my sleeves.
Leave a guest comment (subject to review)
Comments
1 - 6 of 6
-
beautiful!
-
This gave me shivers. It reminds me so much of my grandpa, who passed away just over a year ago.
-
13 months later and i've once again returned to this poem. It still fills me with a sense of deep love and respect. Yet the final line is full of regret I feel. My opinion has changed slightly of the year but it's still awe inspiring for me.
Von -
-
-
To Guest Mark.
Indeed it should have been weeks and it has been changed.
Many thanks for your help.
-
-
Very good poem...I truly felt it...
-
The feeling of utter desolation pervades this poem - it has affected me more than I can describe.
Adding your comment:
1 - 6 of 6
