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Entry tags:
Two Cents
What's done is done; what's broken is no more.
What's gone beneath the bridge you can't regain.
What's taken has been locked behind the door
Of Never, to be never seen again.
As well to wish it somehow to return
As to expect an upward-falling rain,
Or to expect a candle to unburn.
The mark of history upon the soul
Is permanent, as what you from it learn.
In shattered pieces, what was once a whole
Will always after be some scattered bits
Of memory and pain. The final toll,
Once paid, is paid, and there the ferry sits,
And having crossed, the journey-taker quits.
What's gone beneath the bridge you can't regain.
What's taken has been locked behind the door
Of Never, to be never seen again.
As well to wish it somehow to return
As to expect an upward-falling rain,
Or to expect a candle to unburn.
The mark of history upon the soul
Is permanent, as what you from it learn.
In shattered pieces, what was once a whole
Will always after be some scattered bits
Of memory and pain. The final toll,
Once paid, is paid, and there the ferry sits,
And having crossed, the journey-taker quits.