Little things have a way of becoming serious.
I know a house, full of children, with no bicycles.
It's not completely full. One of the children is buried
not too far from one of mine.
We still have bicyles. We simply gave away his.
Our madness took another form. We're short a gate.
We cut it off, and threw it away,
and trained a climbing rose across the gap.
We planted him a beech tree, too, that grows
smooth and cold, and beautiful, like him,
but will, perhaps, grow tall and strong,
as he did not.
Then we cried and made another baby, not the same,
another baby, and he too grows smooth and beautiful,
with legs like pillars, but warm,
a solid, happy, fragile joy.
What do I think? I think that we have all
to die, sooner or later, and can't choose when.
We have no right. That's how it is.
Our lives are cut and rounded for us.
But, God, I think about him every day,
and wish he hadn't died.
A man should die after his father, and before his sons,
however rarely it works out that way.
Lord, I don't agree with your way of doing things.
I don't agree, and I won't agree.
We are just going to have to agree
to differ on this one.
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