It was a busy year for death
She crept about the palace.
And we had poor defence
And she had little malice
A gentle touch put here -
A sad and curt embrace.
A wooden kiss enough
To put them in their place.
And where my father went
Is not now common knowledge;
The inventory was lent
To some old Cambridge college.
I had little faith then,
Nothing spoke to me.
When what you see is Gospel,
The Gospel isn't free.
And Krishna's conch is sunk,
The lotus not in bloom,
Solomon's song unsung
And prayers are called too soon.
So where my father went
Is wind against the Mountain
His love was all but spent
So mine is as a fountain.
All the fruit turn red,
Some of them are still green
But never will you see one
That's stuck and in between.
As all came from a garden
Where the wind has died down low
And there my father went
To help the green fruit grow.
He tends them with a smile,
His fingers stroke the leaves.
He'll never leave the garden,
It's all that I believe.
