The Memory of a Friend
‘There is now nothing, nothing,’ the man said.
‘What can there be? I am here, he is dead.
And what’s the point of that?’ He went about
Quiet and grim, the sun did make him shout
Illuminating life that’s gone astray
And fields of green all turned to ashen gray,
‘What is the point? Why even keep going?’
To him there came no reply to his woe,
The question echoed echoed loud within
Where anguish seemed eternal and hope thin.
He settled down to mindless sleep at last
The promise sweet: oblivion so vast.
But found with grief was hiding shining bright
The mem’ry of what was piercing the night.
That it was real and true was solace small,
Better a memory than none at all.