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octubre 16, 2012

You spent your life struggling;

Resisted change, or else whoever intended to change you.

You refused to leave or then stay wherever they meant to make you.

You burned in the sun and froze in winter’s cold

But you were always one and the same: unyielding,

Adapting to be true to your principles;

He who was not won over by left dialectics

Or subjugated by the right hand,

You always took pride in that.

Non-one ever knuckled you under

Nor pointed a gun at you, it wasn’t necessary.

You watched both war and peace go by, and each

Was the sadder and the more bitter as its time was passed.

Little ever changed.

You never meant your name wreathed in glory,

Though you’d not allow it to be soiled undefended;

With words, no clubs or stones;

With deeds, with deeds, with life.

The way a man can do.

And upon death’s day come,

In spite of it all, you were not ready yet.

You got up, kissed your children’s picture;

The one awaiting at work

And the one they killed.

You looked at your wife


You searched in her eyes

For her usual love

And there you found it;

Went out to the street,

Heard the screaming

Of passers-by;

You saw your neighbours

Walking by busy.

It was on that last day,

As on any other


That you looked up to the sky, as usual,

Looking for a word

Not coming yet, but in your heart;

Acknowledging yourself, serenity

Upon a long day’s toil ahead.

And when Death

Took your body,

Little by little, relentlessly,

Unannounced and determined

To not let you go,

You thought of how little of you was being left behind.

Like everyone’s.

Whether more or less could have been done

Was a statistical anecdote

For those who were left abandoned.

Like everyone.

On the day of your demise

No doves flew over in revering silence,

No crow’s caws and hover announced your departure.

When it was the time for you to go,

You did what you best could: die.

The news spread

The way the wind runs;

Your name flew

A few streets away

Throughout the neighbourhood.

Whoever did hear

Cried over their pain;

No-one to your life.

And yet nothing changed:

On your street

A little silence that night;

In the ‘hood

Your name in whispers for a few days;

In the town and in the city

It was not known.

Peace went on, and war, as always

Like before your life,

Now without it.

A few men were gathered

To secure the handles

On your wooden box.

Water kept flowing

And the sun slid across what was left of the sky

Till it set and vanished

From people’s sight;

They were not watching.

No fanfare to you

And no-one saw the angels

Coming down to meet you on earth,

All in a rush, before their time,

Draining off of the stone houses

Hiding their muddy crying faces;

The wind hardly

Ruffled some leaves in passing.

They carried you in silence

-once you were gone-

And the murmur went on in town

As the hatred among men;

Only the pain in your heart

Did cease to exist.

Like everything.


2 comentarios leave one →
  1. marzo 13, 2013 11:48 pm

    A poem every senior may feel has been written to describe their thoughts, whether life has been well lived or not. A perfect poem for the end of the line.

  2. marzo 14, 2013 10:49 pm

    Thank so very much for your appreciation! I did write it as a eulogy, considering how our innermost thoughts and feelings are but our own, as well as pondering on the fleeting nature of life.


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