In the land of Ataraxis,
in a village made of stone
stands a cottage built by practice
of compassion slowly honed.

On a hill of Ataraxis
in a cottage built of bricks
on a table set for mourning
lies a man whose eyes are fixed

not upon the face of loved ones,
nor upon the flowers spread
'round the room of dwindling daylight,
for this man is rightly dead–

rightly dead, respect deserving,
rightly dead because his life
ran its course, a course well-ridden
rich with joy, devoid of strife.

In the town of Ataraxis,
after searching many years,
builded he a home of heartsease,
filled with laughter and with tears.

If you find this Ataraxis,
if you would, please call my cell.
I would more than in an instant
'til rightly dead, most happ'ly dwell.

To listen to this poem: Download Ataraxis

Text, image and audio and image © 2011 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.