Note from the Next Life

Who are you, reader,
reading my poems a hundred years hence?
I cannot send you one single flower
from this wealth of spring,
one single streak of gold from yonder clouds.
Open your doors and look abroad.
From your blossoming garden gather fragrant
memories of the vanished flowers
of a hundred years before.
In the joy of your heart may you feel the living joy that
sang one spring morning, sending its
glad voice across a hundred years.