Especially Sior Brother Sun . . .
I joined the others, but as I sang, my mind began to wander. The hut vanished, as did the Portiuncula, Assisi-- everything--and I found myself on an unknown stretch of land that was brilliantly green, and boundless. Francis lay in the middle, on the ground, his face turned toward heaven. He was breathing his last. A peaceful, tender drizzle was falling, and the mountain peaks in the distance were covered with mist. A delicious aroma rose from the freshly turned soil. Somewhere far away the ocean was sighing. Francis was alone, no one near him; but then suddenly the air seemed to congeal, and the twelve original brothers appeared in a circle around him, huddled over, their heads thrust within their cowls. No sound could be heard--none but their groans and wailing. I was among them, and as I raised my eyes and looked behind the twelve, I saw hundreds of thousands of tonsured friars, their hoods lowered; and they where chanting the Office of the Dead. Then I sat up on my knees and, looking further into the distance, beheld oxen, horses, dogs, flocks of sheep--all coming toward us, lamenting noisily. They placed themselves behind the friars and stood there with bowed heads. Then the wild animals--wolves, bears, foxes, jackals--emerged from the forest and lined up behind their tame brothers, and they too began to wail and lament. Suddenly thousands of winged creatures could be heard above me. I raised my eyes and watched the swarms of birds, birds of every kind, as they descended with screeching cries and perched around Francis; and a partridge began to pluck out its feathers and was the first among them to sound the dirge.
"My beloved Francis, my beloved Francis," I murmured, "all the birds and animals have come and are weeping; they have all come to your funeral, all your brothers . . . ."
Suddenly the heavens filled with flashes of blue, green, gold, and purple. I lifted my head. The air was thick with wings. Thousands and thousands of angels came and placed themselves round the dying man, then folded their wings and waited with smiling faces, ready to carry off his soul. . . .
All at once the sound of heart-rending cries broke my reverie. Three women had fallen over Francis in an effort to keep him from departing. Sister Pica was holding his head in her arms, Sister Clara embracing and kissing his feet, while Brother Jacopa clutched his hand against her breast. The sun had set; outside, the rain continued to fall, softening, Assuring the earth. At that moment, we all saw two black wings above Francis.
His face was resplendent, his eyes wide open and fixed upon the air. Suddenly he stirred. Calling up all his strength, he turned and glanced slowly at each of us, one by one. His lips moved; he seemed to have some final word to say to us. I went close to him. "Poverty, Peace, Love . . ."
His voice was muted and extremely frail, as though coming from far far away--from the other shore. I held my breath, trying to hear more. There was nothing.
Then, suddenly, we all fell upon his body, kissing it and wailing the dirge.
At the exact sacred instant I inscribed these final words, huddled over in my cell and overcome with tears at the memory of my beloved father, a tiny sparrow came to the window and began to tap on the pane. Its wings were drenched; it was cold. I got up to let it in.
And it was you, Father Francis; it was you, dressed as a tiny sparrow.
Nikos Kazantzakis, Saint Francis
(Series: # )
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