I’ve been enjoying a lot of poetry lately. The poets seem to be able to articulate western attitudes toward death better than anyone else. Here’s a nice one from Uncle Walt -nod to my generation’s teen angst movie Dead Poet’s Society- Enjoy!
I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps.
What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?
They are alive and well somewhere,
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,
And ceas’d the moment life appear’d.
(Walt Whitman, Song of Myself, VI)