A friend of mine is near the end,
Soon the rowing will be over
for him. Soon we will cry, then
all go on without him. As I
have gone on without,
without the ones I have
loved. Parents, a wife,
one child. all gone. So what
am I suppose to do mourn?
I have done that. Weep?
That too. Curse God,
What would be the purpose? What
would be the gain?
I am the heretic of the bunch!
All the old gang are
praying for a healing.
A recovery. trying to make
God move.
Me, I believe
just like them or did.
Now I say, 'God is
what God is
I move no further from that.
Let Him do
what He will do
I must be content
with the consequences. Then
again
What of my own
rowing, my own death.
'So we beat on, boats against the current, bourne
back ceaselessly into the past.'
F. Scott Fitzgerald
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem