Dead are Many, Living Few

A Parable of the Bouddha
by Charles William Stubbs 

Came a woman to the Master --
“Great Lord Bouddha, pity me,
Medicine give me for my dead child,
Child of Kisagotami."

Said the Master -- "Bring me hither
Grains of millet, my behest,
But from house that Death hath never
Entered an unbidden guest.”

Went the mother with her dead child
Clasped close in agony,
“Give me, neighbours, grains of millet,
 As the Master biddeth me."

Said the people: "Here is millet,
Take it, Lady, thy behest;"
But she asketh: “Hath death ever
Crossed your threshold as a guest?

“Hath there ever in my friend's house
Died a husband, parent, child?
” And the neighbours pitying wondered
 At her question strange and wild.

“ Yea, sweet Lady, as thou sayest
Is the common lot, too true:
Of all households in the village,
Dead are many, living few."

And she went through all the village,
Households rich and households poor,
But the answer ever cometh,
“Few the living, dead are more.”

Then the mother's eyes were opened,
And her heart was comforted,
"Ah, Lord Bouddha! there is pity
In thy discipline," she said.