It was a busy year for death She crept about the palace. And we had poor defense And she had little malice A gentle touch put here - A sad and curt embrace. A wooden kiss enough To put them in their place. And where my father went Is not now common knowledge; The inventory was lent To some old Cambridge college. I had little faith then, Nothing spoke to me. When what you see is Gospel, The Gospel isn't free. And Krishna's conch is sunk, The lotus not in bloom, Solomon's song unsung And prayers are called too soon. So where my father went Is wind against the Mountain His love was all but spent So mine is as a fountain. All the fruit turn red, Some of them are still green But never will you see one That's stuck and in between. As all came from a garden Where the wind has died down low And there my father went To help the green fruit grow. He tends them with a smile, His fingers stroke the leaves. He'll never leave the garden, It's all that I believe.