In Third Person

He was that carpenter,
the one who walked behind the coffin
dry-eyed;
He never had made a name for himself.
And then his feet no longer moved,
because, poor and tired, he had died.

Already, other feet walked in his footsteps,
those other feet still him,
those other hands his as well.
But yet, he persisted
when it seemed he must be spent.
He was the same man again,
he was once again different and the same.

Only when that broken man was able
did he come back to life,
remaining unnoticed.
He was that man allright,
and he no longer stood out
from the others,
others who were himself.

He gave away his existence,
that was all.
He had never been contained
in a song,
or by his mortal form.
He went somewhere else to work,
and ultimately he went toward death
until he existed only
in what he left behind;
tree-lined boulevards
he would not be aware of,
wooden homes he would not inhabit again.

And I come back to see him,
and every day I wait.
I still see him,
in his coffin and resurrected.
I pick him out from all the others
who are no less his equals.

And it seems to me
that this cannot be,
that this way leads us somewhere,
that to continue is recovery.
I believe that heaven
must emcompass this man
living happy, joyous and free.