After the death of our son
Neither the sorrows of afternoon, waiting in the silent house,
Nor the night no sleep relieves, when memory
Repeats its prosecution.
Nor the morning's ache for dream's illusion, nor any prayers
Improvised to an unknowable god
Can extinguish the flame.
We are not as we were. Death has been our pentecost,
And our innocence consumed by these implacable
Tongues of fire.
Comfort me with stones. Quench my thirst with sand.
I offer you this scarred and guilty hand
Until others mix our ashes.
Dana Gioia's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Pentecost by Dana Gioia )
- Think Me On That Train, Susan Lacovara
- Lovers, Tex T Sarnie
- The Big Picture, Tex T Sarnie
- You fill me, hasmukh amathalal
- I stashed my life, Aftab Alam
- the right self, RIC S. BASTASA
- Am I different?, gajanan mishra
- Drops on Earth, binod bastola
- On Her Bed She Lay, White Lily
- Agree for help, hasmukh amathalal
Poem of the Day
- 04 Tongues Made Of Glass, Shaun Shane
- Alone, Maya Angelou
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- If, Rudyard Kipling
- If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda
- Invictus, William Ernest Henley
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- Daffodils, William Wordsworth
- Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost
- Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, Dylan Thomas
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
- Heather Burns
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi
(1207 - 1273)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)