This poem is inspired by the famous painting "Isle of the Dead" by Arnold Böcklin (see attached) , as well as the symphonic music piece by S. Rachmaninov. 

Isle of Rest 

By Ken Fan 

It's a dreary winter day, 

And sunset seems earlier than usual. 

The old man knows, 

It's time to depart for that destined island. 

Faraway from all the hustle and bustle, 

So, just maybe, 

He would be closer to Heaven. 

Please don't sweep his tomb. 

No visitors, such is told, 

no earthly wastes and stains. 

Weeds in Spring may grow wild, 

And then will surely wither in Autumn. 

Ultimately they'll turn to ashes and soil, 

And all will be no different. 

He just wishes that 

the place would be guarded by giant limestones. 

When a frightening storm comes to assault, 

They would protect those weeping bones

from being swept up by merciless gales, 

And dissipating into the darkness of an ocean. 

He also wishes there's an evergreen at front, 

Standing tall. 

So it will wave at every passing ship, 

And pronounce

Here lies underneath a humble soul, 

Who once had noble aspirations. 

He'd like the slowest adagio played nearby, 

Even though it's only audible to him and seagulls. 

With an endless time and space, 

Just chant all those lamentations. 

He finally gets to hear and feel 

each of those melodious notes,

glorious chords and syncopations. 

On those fated paths to eternity, adieu, 

Some imagines the way back to hometown, 

Some fancies an elevated altar in a temple. 

This old man just wants to forsake all, 

Then into a reposeful oblivion. 

Far out in an open sea, 

There hides his tranquil seclusion, 

Where deep bruises are caressed by soothing waves,

And dark reefs are cleansed by white foams. 

Oh yes, 

It's that remote isle 

With a proud evergreen at entrance. 

Finally painless, 

alas, 

With only peace, praises 

and appreciations ....