I hear their voices,

the voices of the dead and departed,
whose energies have withdrawn
from the ten thousand things
into the generative substrate
of the All;

the syncopated musicality
of their voices;

the oracular cadence
of their utterances
rising through the gaps of memory;

a shrill summons
out of oblivion:

the resonances of voices,
a forest of strings
in the mist:

violin, viola,
violoncello, double bass:

Judy, Dellaree, Sirkka,
Sister, Mother, Father,
Kjellström, Guido, Karlheinz,
Folke, Bruno;

their calling,
their relinquishing;

the tonnage of tonalities
in the dimness above the Styx:

their flickering presences,

their emptied Lebens(t)raum:

the calligraphic elegance
of a delicate laconic hand
upon the fragile age
of rice paper