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It was 1983 and I was six years old, riding between my father and brother in my father's Oldsmobile, back when front seats stretched from door to door. My father drove, and my brother, who was
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"Part of me dies within me,"
you said.
But why?
But why won't you cry, and wail, and roar?
Because the cryer, the wailer, the roarer
is dead.
Dead
but not alseep.
Then tell me.
Tell me why are you sad, distressed and heartbroken?
That's the echo of the dead,
whisper of the ghost.
Nothing more.
Nothing more.
you said.
But why?
But why won't you cry, and wail, and roar?
Because the cryer, the wailer, the roarer
is dead.
Dead
but not alseep.
Then tell me.
Tell me why are you sad, distressed and heartbroken?
That's the echo of the dead,
whisper of the ghost.
Nothing more.
Nothing more.
