Sometimes I look at a picture from a film and a thought just strikes
me more than usual. Like this one. This is the last night he would ever
spend asleep in bed...
The Last Sleep
He lay, dreaming of home...
always it was home
and he was there again,
with...them...again
Nothing hanging about him
that bespoke his days in Rome,
and clouds billowed
whitely into Spanish skies.
That was all.
Would it rain?
Before the wheat was gathered in
Would the rain begin to fall?
Were they sweet?
His grapes on the far slope of the hill;
Had it rained...enough?
Taking his knife,
he sliced smooth yellowness of pear.
Was it ripe...and ready?
Such were the fibers of his sleep.
That was all.
He smiled, reaching
strong brown fingers out
to touch her blowing hair,
brushing softly back,
leaning, then, to kiss.
He murmured, once, of love
then turned upon the cot,
settling his hand behind his head,
settling his soul into the land.
That was all.
He had no way of knowing
it WAS all...
that this night was his final sleep,
these his final dreams,
That come the morrow afternoon
he'd reach a bloodied hand,
give one final push,
and with a creak of hinge,
the gates would swing
And the way be clear...
at last the open way
his for the walking through
with no longer need for dreams,
no longer need for sleep.
But...now he sleeps,
gentle breathing in and out,
the rise and fall of life.
Not knowing as in his dreams
he brushes back her hair,
On the morrow afternoon
the fingers of his soul
will touch it once again...
when he is done with sleep,
when the need for dreams is gone,
.
When all there was
is all there is...
dreams have found their way,
and home is grasped again.
Jo Anzalone
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