| First Voice: |
Now it is over. Now it is
composed. No rolling back the stone of what has been. Nor would we if we could. The past is whole. A painted urn to lock our ashes in. |
| Second Voice: |
But how should I call him dead
whose vivid eyes Had whelmed me in their awful tenderness? The fire in that gaze will never die. That burning grows, not fades, within my breast. The day he came to let me wash his feet I nearly died for joy. I could not sleep, That night. To die for joy is life, he said. To die is life. So how should he be dead? |
| First Voice: |
You do not understand. He is no
more. Respect the dead; for God’s sake, let him lie. And he shall live forever in your breast If you but let your grasping memories die. You never will be clean until you know The place where that tale ends and this begins. Until you stop, and gather, and go on, You ravel still the threads of all your sins. |
| Second Voice: |
I know the tale is done. And yet
I know This, too: that no tale ever truly ends. Until the final epilogue is read Tale hearkens unto tale across the years. I tell you – |
| Third
Voice: |
No longer seek the living among the dead. The past has ties no mortal man can sever. Now hail the dawning epilogue forever. |