If at my death I'm still afraid to go,
look at my life and you will surely see
open books of things I'd sought to know,
verses balked, and songs without a key,
entire chapters of my life undone --
years of joy I would have surely known,
over now before they'd yet begun;
unfruitful seeds I'd never even sown.
More time would not have given me more life;
your years are not a measure of success.
Just tell me though, why were mine full of strife,
enough to block my victories with stress?
No strife and stress could drain my joy away,
not if I'd got to hold you just one day.
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