Happy birthday

To my brother, Georges-Christophe. Happy 33rd!

Death be not proud

As I type this, Mama's body is being interred in the soil of Asaba. Dust to dust.

Yesterday, I was at the library and picked up a French phrase book. Reading for a minute suddenly sprung hot tears; I had to look up away and out the window. As I read, I could hear Mama's lilting sing-song French.

DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
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 thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.