Sunday, November 17, 2013

a good man

          The time you won your town the race
          We chaired you through the market-place;
          Man and boy stood cheering by,
          And home we brought you shoulder-high.

          To-day, the road all runners come,
          Shoulder-high we bring you home,
          And set you at your threshold down,
          Townsman of a stiller town.

          Smart lad, to slip betimes away
          From fields where glory does not stay
          And early though the laurel grows
          It withers quicker than the rose.

          Now you will not swell the rout
          Of lads that wore their honours out,
          Runners whom renown outran
          And the name died before the man.

          And round that early-laurelled head
          Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
          And find unwithered on its curls
          The garland briefer than a girl's.

from
A Shropshire Lad
A. E. Housemans


Remember with me today the life of my cousin Henco.

On Friday, he was removed from this chessboard by an enemy all of us here still have to face.

He was only four years or so older than I, yet he got conscripted ("National Duty") while I managed to dodge that bullet. With many scars he made it through the Angolan War.

Saving people became his job then, as fireman, but after a while he'd had enough and he chose for his family the quiet life, operating a small farm in Vryburg, North West.

Written by I
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