His Own Master
(A tribute to the memory of REMCO who,
when the fight was too much,
chose to do it HIS WAY)
Grim is the Reaper. People say
His scythe leaves no out gate.
Ordained his books are. There's no way
To flee their ruthless fate.
He's not just pitiless. Sometimes
He's also so unjust.
Pleasure he takes, among his aims,
To break down faith and trust.
He picked you fresh, being so young,
All life in front to see.
He took your being, good and strong,
To make a parody.
"Hey, do you think this life is yours?"
He asked, with toothy grin.
"The single master's me, of course,
You have no way to win!"
But you, pure spirit, you stood firm,
You laughed in his dark face.
"Don't wait to see me beg or squirm,
I still retain an ace!
Over my flesh master you are,
But never to my soul!
My creed, as blinding as a star,
Defies you, coward ghoul!
You can the destiny decide,
But never to the end!
In fright I'll never run or hide,
But dignified I'll stand!
The fateful hourglass I'll smash,
The deathly sand I'll spill,
By my own will I'll turn to ash,
I'm master of my will!
Enough with your ignoble game,
A wretch I'll never be!
It is yourself who turn in shame,
Not having vanquished me!
Depart, Grim Reaper, there's no use
Of your noxious ways.
This life is mine, it's me to choose
What goes away, what stays.
Off goes your hideous mockingry,
I state the 'when' and 'how',
Untouched by your cruel perfidy,
Your plans I thwart - and NOW!"
These were your words, you noble knight,
Before the dungeon's gate,
When, with full honors and no fright,
You chose no more to wait.
An upwards flying meteor
From chaos you took way.
You reached the heaven's glided door,
Never to go away.
Young golden angel, look downwards:
These broken hearts, in pain,
Your blessing need, to help the shards
To mend and heal again.
And when your dear ones will console,
A prayer, praise thee, send,
For this poor poet, hurt and sole,
Who is to life sentenced.
Pitbull (Mihnea Columbeanu)
23 October 2001
h. 16:50 - 17:29
Bucharest, Romania
(A FEW COMMENTS: Remco departed us too young to have had time for leaving his imprint on the Sands of Time. I found this fate too unfair to let it be so, and thus I felt like bestowing him these lyrics, as a heritage of his passing away. They contain everything I know about him, as little or as much as it be. Since it's HIM who inspired them, he is the true author of this poem. I'm only the executive, the hand and mind who put it into shape and print. - M.C.)
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Am postat aici poezia pentru a ilustra un exemplu din discutia despre euthanasie, la "Cronica unei morti anuntate":
http://www.cinemagia.ro/forum/showth...29#post1454529