Desiderata
Oh
Dylan, oh Marlais, my boisterous son,
Exhort
me not to anger in this my final hour.
My
journey's journeyed, my day is done
My
lightning words made you my son.
Perhaps
not through wisdom more by love's eternal power,
Leander
to your mother's gentle Hero and nun
Good
deeds did not Mankind at the graveside shun,
Though
many a false friend and kinsman before death did cower.
Think
on how green your valley is my son
More
Daedalus than Icarus still I have sung the sun,
Soaring
wildly in language catching the cadence of Ulysses' tower,
Griefless
in the warmth that I shared with you my son.
No
Tiresias, no blind seer, no wasteland, my son,
Only
the collective unconscious unfurling its everlasting flower.
Nothing Oedipal, nothing complex, no fulfilment undone.
Have
a care what you pray for lest you achieve it my son.
With
my gentle tears I bless you. For your tears dioch yn fawr.
Rage
and darkness are for the living. The light beckons me on.
Be
at peace for I am with you and will always be my son.
