Dedicated to Grazie Seah
It was only a few hours ago that I woke up to just how transient life is, how the Grim Reaper is always among us. Up till this moment, never had I thought much of the spectre that is Death. But it is upon us. Someday, too, I will go, and I'll never know when I will until notice is served me - or not at all.
Never had I expected the spectre of Death to be right in our midst.
~~~~~~~~~~
But even though life is transient, so too is the state of death. What is permanent is that which comes afterwards. I must be strong, and work towards that.
My dear, strong friend, Grazie, this is for you.
Death Be Not Proud, by John Donne (1572-1631)
Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
Poem from http://classiclit.about.com/library/bl-etexts/jdonne/bl-jdonne-death.htm
Dominus tibiscum, amica mea. Dominus tibiscum, in aeternum.
Never had I expected the spectre of Death to be right in our midst.
~~~~~~~~~~
But even though life is transient, so too is the state of death. What is permanent is that which comes afterwards. I must be strong, and work towards that.
My dear, strong friend, Grazie, this is for you.
Death Be Not Proud, by John Donne (1572-1631)
Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
Poem from http://classiclit.about.com/library/bl-etexts/jdonne/bl-jdonne-death.htm
Dominus tibiscum, amica mea. Dominus tibiscum, in aeternum.