Peace-- what the holy man desired, the end of all things-- peace. And
I, I do not want to lose the gift of memory; I want remembrance, but I
want it without pain.
The cherry-blossoms have bloomed and passed away. They lingered
but a moment's space, and, like my dream of spring, they died. But,
passing, they have left behind the knowledge that we'll see them once
again. There must be something, somewhere, to speak to despairing
mothers and say, "Weep not! You will see your own again."
I do not want a God of temples. I have cried my prayers to Kwan-yin,
and they have come back to me like echoes from a deadened wall. I
want a God to come to me at night-time, when I am lying lonely,
wide-eyed, staring into darkness, with all my body aching for the
touch of tiny hands. I want that God who says, "I give thee Peace," to
stand close by my pillow and touch my wearied eyelids and bring me
rest.
I have been dead-- enclosed within a tomb of sorrow and despair; but
now, at words but dimly understood, a faint new life seems stirring
deep within me. A Voice speaks to me from out these pages, a Voice
that says, "Come unto Me all ye weary and heavy-laden, and I will
give thee rest.
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