They hated you for your truth,
but you prevailed my dearest
friend.

Though you left too suddenly,
too soon to say goodbye,
and no one could say
"We are sorry for having misjudged
you, but we were blinded by your light."

I know that as long as even one person
stays alive and tastes the oranges growing
from your ashes, that your story will never
die.
Not in the poetry
not in the music,
not in the art
you left
behind, waiting.

Waiting. Wanting to be heard.

Sometimes I hear a sitar string being plucked.
Sometimes I hear your laughter at these tears, welling
like odd old adversaries.

"Where could I be but there, in your heart?"

www.epston.com