Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee;
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou'art slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie,' or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then they stroake; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more, Death thou shalt die.

It sounds pretty strange to think about such thoughts, but I was looking through my folders of my hotmail (as I'm trying to clear them), I came across this folder: Miss Jacobs.

What's that all about? It's about my beloved literature tutor who has returned to God when we were in J1. Reading through all the supportive emails that our class wrote to each other really bought me back in time, to that moment where we found out the truth. It was during one of our literature class, Shakespeare I think, and then the teacher just came to us, class by class, the classes which she taught, to tell us the news, before the announce it over the PA system. And we just cried and cried.

And the sad part is she was not really sick, a simple nose problem a simple surgery gone wrong because of some allergy which, I'm not sure if it was the hospital's fault. Everything failed, and she just collapsed.

And all of us were shattered. So shattered. Till today, I haven't thrown away the poems she gave out, the encouragement she gave, she, who brought out the beauty in the poems. I can still remember her face, her smile, and sadly, also the image of the last respect.
And she taught us about the death poem earlier, spoke of weaknesses of death and, with a triumphant and confident tone, declares his victory over it by means of his lack of respect and fear for its implications. Death, is a mere transition, which does not serve as an end, but instead, a new awakening to an eternal afterlife.

So my dear Miss Jacobs, rest. Memories live with me, forever.

elegy for my artist ( - my mentor, and her new path ahead - )

she danced through the night
and the night breezed her away by the hand
upon an alien temperate terrain to tread,
and sometime an jarring gaze down onto the lulling grey:

when her hands recovered their sight
her brushes breathed their last
but shall sometime live on to shimmer
upon the artist's canvas, a class
she scorned to palette white and black and dim,
but the delicate hues of passion and mirth, which served
the modernist art she tailored the canvas to fit.
alas, 'tis done with scars upon the heavy shoulders,
and the eyes that bled with will.

i recall her as my artist,
my window to the sea of life,
i reconcile myself with her,
who now lives little beyond a picture,
i relinquish her,
whose spirit is yet to quiver.
who shall gain respite
and our respect most grim.
indeed she was the artist when

she danced through the night
and the night breezed her shoes away by the lord
when her quiver of arrows brimmed,
and her artistry brewing.

we sink into the void,
and laugh off a joke,
learning that she is still on our side,
the strength bestowed upon us,
and the flame that blazed our frown.


marc
(my classmate)

Intrigued by Ping's blog, want to post a question. If you were to die tmr, what regrets would you have?