An elegy
When it arrived, the news of bereavement, I was home. When the bearer arrived, and told me that the gun had gone silent, and the recoil had claimed the shooter, I did not hung my head or dab at my eyes. When I heard that he had finally let go, I did not see sorrow but relief. I did not see an end, I saw a beginning. When the news arrived I knew that the battle had been won, and the victory was his. Oh I knew that the wings had come of age and the bird had finally taken to the skies. But who are we kidding? You have left us with a weight heavy and uncalled for, but we refuse to lament its press. You have left us with shadows, but we refuse to say that we are shaken. Fear has become our second name and we worry about who would be next, but mind us not. Send a light when you get to the top, so we too can see the ladder, for sometimes we do crave to clamber on to the top, just to be with you, to taste from the cup of victory. Oh I shall lie not. I have become a man sad and miserable. I cannot take the thought that sunsets have become lonely all of a sudden, and the flavour has gone out of our laughter. Now that you have left, so have the stories we told late into the night. The hearth has gone cold and the sun ceased to warm. I cannot allow myself to know that no more shall we read your story, for the ink has drowned in the pages of white, and the pen has gone silent. The flowers have dried up and the storm boiled over. The books have closed, and oh, the sun has refused to rise and the night refused to set. Fare thee well ye that lived. Rest easy for you ran the race, fought the fight and kept the faith. You strayed not from thy path. You left us darkness to wear as a jewel though, and we wear it with pride. But why should we lie to ourselves? What vanity, for man to think death is victory? Death is that which pries away, breaks, smashes, and bludgeons. Death is that which takes away yours and replaces it with his. Oh buddy, death is he who clips wings and chops off fins. Bit by bit, chunk after chunk your heart falls apart. Petal by petal and leaf by leaf, your heart wilts away. But still we urge you, to remember to let go of the weight, that which holds you back, for though you always have had a tattered sail, the wind still blows your way. We shall learn to take a step after the other, to stumble on without your light and to live on without your heart. Thou shall return someday, in a song or the breeze, in the sun or the moon, and you shall find us here waiting in the silence, for we here have refused to die.
When it arrived, the news of bereavement, I was home. When the bearer arrived, and told me that the gun had gone silent, and the recoil had claimed the shooter, I did not hung my head or dab at my eyes. When I heard that he had finally let go, I did not see sorrow but relief. I did not see an end, I saw a beginning. When the news arrived I knew that the battle had been won, and the victory was his. Oh I knew that the wings had come of age and the bird had finally taken to the skies. But who are we kidding? You have left us with a weight heavy and uncalled for, but we refuse to lament its press. You have left us with shadows, but we refuse to say that we are shaken. Fear has become our second name and we worry about who would be next, but mind us not. Send a light when you get to the top, so we too can see the ladder, for sometimes we do crave to clamber on to the top, just to be with you, to taste from the cup of victory. Oh I shall lie not. I have become a man sad and miserable. I cannot take the thought that sunsets have become lonely all of a sudden, and the flavour has gone out of our laughter. Now that you have left, so have the stories we told late into the night. The hearth has gone cold and the sun ceased to warm. I cannot allow myself to know that no more shall we read your story, for the ink has drowned in the pages of white, and the pen has gone silent. The flowers have dried up and the storm boiled over. The books have closed, and oh, the sun has refused to rise and the night refused to set. Fare thee well ye that lived. Rest easy for you ran the race, fought the fight and kept the faith. You strayed not from thy path. You left us darkness to wear as a jewel though, and we wear it with pride. But why should we lie to ourselves? What vanity, for man to think death is victory? Death is that which pries away, breaks, smashes, and bludgeons. Death is that which takes away yours and replaces it with his. Oh buddy, death is he who clips wings and chops off fins. Bit by bit, chunk after chunk your heart falls apart. Petal by petal and leaf by leaf, your heart wilts away. But still we urge you, to remember to let go of the weight, that which holds you back, for though you always have had a tattered sail, the wind still blows your way. We shall learn to take a step after the other, to stumble on without your light and to live on without your heart. Thou shall return someday, in a song or the breeze, in the sun or the moon, and you shall find us here waiting in the silence, for we here have refused to die.
Comments
Post a Comment