How strong it feels
As I hold it now
Even in illness
Even in death
Shaped and formed
By a lifetime of labor
Seventy-eight years
Of toil and wear
How many times
That hand must have held me
When I was a baby
Helpless and small
How many times
That hand picked me up
Slapping my shoulders
Patting my head
I held that hand
On the way to the drugstore
Counting the cracks
One at a time
Pitching me softballs
And building my bike
Handing me pocket change
Guiding my life
The warmth fades now
But the strength remains
Even in illness
Even in death
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"I have spent my days stringing and unstringing my instrument while the song I came to sing remains unsung." ~ Rabindranath Tagore
- bard
- A mixture of poet and musician, warrior and philosopher, the bard, having grown weary of trying to find his place in the modern world, retired to the Lonely Bard Inn to contemplate his future. He is often seen drinking or writing alone (a personification of the inn itself), but from time to time he joins in the festivities that are always to be found in the pub. On occasion he even shares a poem or song with the sympathetic patrons, who are usually eager for new forms of amusement.