I love poems. I dream of publishing my works before fire fetches me back to the divine cycle or earth and grass blanket over me (if the people I willed won’t be brave enough to completely part with my illusion). I once thought of composing my own epitaph. Until I bumped into this one in the pages of the book I find most useful during my college days.
Finding it that early in life, it struck me both as love-at-first-read and a prophecy at the same time. It felt like I could have written it. The words were so simple yet filled with depth and arousing a sense of exactness to my personal psyche. It gave hints of challenges, of ironies, and realizations – things that have happened and will eventually happen. I knew right then when I first read it that it will be the perfect summary of my life and all the things that came with it.
Reading it and owning it, at the back of my head, there’s this idea, of a longing to know and see first hand the tomb (or tombstone) it originally came. I feel I am somehow indebted to its original author that I need to offer my gratitude personally. The idea of accomplishing this is nearly impossible, I know. But the wanting, I know for sure, will always be there.
They say, no one can ever attend his own funeral. But we could at least be the one to summarize it for the benefit of those who really cared to know.
from a Greek epitaph
I who loved beauty was not beautiful;
I cherished truth and yet I was not true;
I who remembered am so soon forgotten,
But I loved you.
I who loved mirth was well acquaint with sorrow;
I honoured freedom, yet I was not free;
But once, indeed, I knew the just equation,
For you loved me.