Wednesday, December 4, 2013

Nemo me lacrumis decoret dare neque fletu celebrare exequias volutabantur

They will dress nicely
To keep warm and to be respectful
And during the procession there
Some will be strong
a silent look upon their face

During the funeral some will cry
Because they see life as all there is
But they are wrong

Wasting those tears collected
in handkerchiefs made of finest cotton

There is more, I cannot show them
I am only human
I cannot tell them, words alone cannot transform
I only know from knowing
That leaves me torn

There are cemeteries all across the horizon
The land is filled with bones
The ravens and crows fly above
The sky is dotted

But when I die I will not be missed long
Because little in this world matters
Little in this world is remembered

Dead flesh passes quickly
Words are forgotten
The only way in which we matter
Are the way in which we love
The way in which we care

We are temporal, and made of dust
The spirit is eternal
The flesh will die
It is rotten
Which will you trust?

Art credit Henri Rivière

“Not the power to remember, but its very opposite, the power to forget, is a necessary condition for our existence.”   ― Sholem Asch