The Gift of Nothing

A gift of nothing from no one

Awaits me deep in the forest

Of withered trees and dry foliage,

Of echoes of long-dead songs

/

I look across the glass river,

The banks of which are my playground,

Whose liquid glass is my water,

Whose changing name is unknown

/

I look across at the forest,

Waiting for the gliding ferry

To come and dock at my threshold

So I could welcome Him home

/

He brings me voices of strangers

And coins from faraway countries;

He tells me stories of people,

Whom only He could have known

/

He says one day he will give me

My gift of nothing from no one,

And on that day He will tell me

The river’s name and His own

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Isola_dei_Morti_IV_%28Bocklin%29.jpg

P.S.: Something to listen to if you liked the poem

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Isle_of_the_Dead_%28Rachmaninoff%29