I stand sturdy in this room,
Facing you warm from the womb.
I press my back against the wall,
To push you back before you fall;
To watch your back.
I am your wall.
I feel my heels against the wall,
Where others stood before I crawled.
If I'd been dipped in River Styx
I'd linger long and stall.
But like Achilles,
I must fall.
I wasn't bathed in ambrosia
To burn off mortality;
Yet I'm awash in awe by you,
For my eternity.
For this my hands are calloused,
My great grief known to me.
I know Achilles' burning rage
To know someday I'll leave.
Before that day we'll warm a bench
Near willowed river tree;
I'll wear a cap, carry a cane,
Sit small ones on my knee.
We'll name the Lakers carrying coal,
Tell mythic stories of those grown old,
And wonder where the boats unload.
I'll know the joy you'll bring to me
Beneath the willow tree.
Today my heels press the wall,
I'm stalwart facing you;
I'll push and shove and hold you back;
Then face my wall,
My shroud and pall.
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This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem