A poem by Fisher kel Tath.
- "And all these people gathered
to honour the one who had died,
was it a man, a woman, a warrior,
a king, a fool, and where were
the statues, the likenesses painted
on plaster and stone?
yet so they stood or sat, the wine
spilling at their feet, dripping red
from their hands, with wasps
in their dying season spinning about
in sweet thirst and drunken
voices cried out, stung awake
voices blended in confused
profusion, the question asked
again then again ... why? But this
is where a truth finds its own wonder,
for the question was not why did
this one die, or such to justify
for in their heart of milling lives
there were none for whom
this gathering was naught
but an echo, of former selves.
They asked, again and yet again,
why are we here?
The one who died had no name
but every name, no face but every
face of those who had gathered,
and so it was we who learned
among wasps swept past living
yet nerve-firing one last piercing
that we were the dead
and all in an unseen mind—
stood or sat a man, or a woman,
a warrior, queen or fool, who
in drunken leisure gave a moment’s
thought to all passed by in life."
- ―Fountain Gathering
Fisher kel Tath