An old friend of mine died this week, and i am reading this poem at
his funeral on friday:
(itlaics) The limits of my language are the limits of my world. (close
italics) Wittgenstein
As bit players, the limits
of everyday activity
are the limits of our lives. You are
half out the door, going
who knows where. Perhaps you can
tell us when we meet again.
We don't expect cards or letters,
emails or texts, and only our
limited senses would ask for
photos of the other side.
Did you leave your watch behind?
I picture Sue running
after you, shouting, 'You forgot
your watch, you forgot your watch.'
Time is only for us now,
empty arms of the clock
hold us back from joining you.
When you were sick
and tired of it all, you left. I can
understand that. Mind the step,
wipe your feet. I expect we will follow you
in time. They chisel years
on tombstones, don't they, yet facts
are putty in historians' hands after deeds
are done. It's a variety show, all this song and dance.
Total it up: More love than hate,
more laughter than tears. Do you need
a torch? Or is that light at the end of the tunnel
light enough? Perhaps you can send us
a clue or two, telling us, What happens next?
Eh? Tell me that.
As usual, all criticisms gratefully received.
--
Andrew
http://hispirits.blogspot.com/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/aburke/
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