There

shed not a tear of sorrow for sorrow

there,
from where I crawl . . . I walk

there,
from where I write,
where I
dip the tip its pen
the palm my hand its held in

there,
where blue lines drip blood lines
down the side of gray skies
where ashes fly the Phoenix of me
rising up through there
from where I die not
but there from where
there’s reconstitution, rebirth,
resurrection, reparation

shed not a tear of sorrow, for sorrow,

if I can bear to live it
you can bear to live whilst
I live amongst it
there,
the ember’d ashes of souls laid waste
those two imposters (1), heaven and hell,
impose upon our veneration

shed not a tear of anguish for anguish

if you can cast warm your luminous shadow
the cold darkness covering me
to keep my soul about me
till what comes of it, comes from me
there,
from where I write,
where I
dip the tip its pen
the palm my hand its held in

1: If – By Rudy Kipling, http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/if