To Unk.

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.

January 1967

 

 

 

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