from
The Golden Gate
by Vikram Seth
Random House

Are the dead, too, defiled by sorrow,
Remorse, or anguish? We who love
Clutch at our porous myths to borrow
Belief to ease us, to forgive
Those who by dying have bereft us
Of themselves, of ourselves, and left us
Prey to this spirit-baffling pain.
The countries round our lives maintain
No memoirists and no recorders.
Those who are born are too young, those
Who die are too silent, to disclose
What lies across the occluded borders
Of this bright tract, where we can see
Each other evanescently.

© Copyright Vikram Seth, 1986. All Rights Reserved. No portion of this work may be reproduced of transmitted in any form of by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system now or hereafter invented, without permission in writing from the Publisher.