where the breath is stilled at last

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Where the breath is stilled at last, what happens to the prayers?

Do they, like school children rushing out for recess, make a bee-line for some favored sand box or slide, bypassing any thought of "God," and play what games may come to mind ... no need to pray, for they are prayer and what nitwit prays for what he already is?

Or do they, like wily teenagers, cross some nearby ridge and find a favored trysting point, there to hug and kiss and know that no sodden parent could ever have known a bliss like this? No one could ever know such tenderness or fire ... and the lies they told their parents in order to sneak away are worth every minute of this very secret, stolen minute. Where the breath is stilled at last, finally they are free to feel the sap coursing through their veins, they who were once trapped on mirthless lips.

Where the breath is stilled at last, what happens to the prayers?

I wish them well, wherever they choose to go, and delight in their delight.

They remind me of the old Bedouin greeting that rings true where the breath is stilled at last:

"I salute you and I thank you for your life."
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