Bric à brac

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public
doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
W.H. Auden

A morte é tão cruel não pelo fim que representa, mas pela continuidade que a vida toma a seguir a ela.
O mundo não pára quando tudo o que uma Mãe pode sentir, no momento em que perde um filho, é que o mundo devia todo morrer com ele.
Nenhum filho deveria existir depois do nosso se ir.
Nenhuma estrela deveria brilhar, nem o sol ou a lua.
Só o tempo existe. E passa.