I ask the zephyr and the mildly rustling leaves whose words they bring to me.
Do they bring me the epistle of a distant beloved or do they convey the words of a bygone friend?
I look at the pellucid azure sky through the canopy and it tells me I'm yet sentient.
The limpid water of the streamlet benignly caresses the pebbles at it's marge,
As if saying it would endear them with all their bruises.
I look about and wonder where the Elysium is if not where I stand at this moment in time.
As I leisurely drown into a slumber, I ponder if here is where the blessed dead lie.