What is it that remains –
Now seven years have passed ?
Or is there nothing left to speak of him
Who was so much alive ?
Now that he’s gone,
What counts that life
Of tireless, vital, self-effacing love ?
What value now the searching honesty,
The pain of living in the light of truth ?
The bitter irony of those last wasted years
Spent unremittingly in unrewarded toil.
Always in patient hope of future joy
That never came. So much pain
And so much love. So little asked for
And so little given. There was
No retribution here. Is there in heaven ?
Such sadness is not worthy of the life which calls it forth.
For he would not call it lived in vain
(Each obstacle a challenge –
A chance to fight again).
And if he knew his thoughts lived on in me,
That his great heart still beats within my own,
Because of him, my soul at last is free.
If he knew this ‘t would be enough to atone.