How is it to stand in a dead man’s shoes
To lead his life, have you ever thought
As you survey all but can change naught,
That your own identity you’ll begin to lose.
How is it to sit at a dead man’s table
To eat his food and drink his wine
Hear his clock ticking away the time
And lie on his sofa whenever you’re able.
How is it to sleep in a dead man’s bed
To father his sons, take his dogs for a walk
To love his wife and listen to her talk
And hear repeated every word he once said.
Does it remind you of the families you’ve lost
Do you ever stop to consider the cost?
October 2001
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem