On the radio this morning I heard an interview with a man who had lost his son. He is a poet and he wrote an epic poem about his grief. He read part of the poem on the radio and I really liked it, so I wanted to post it here.
An excerpt from Gabriel: A Poem by Edward Hirsch:
I did not know the work of mourning
Is like carrying a bag of cement
Up a mountain at nightThe mountaintop is not in sight
Because there is no mountaintop
Poor Sisyphus griefI did not know I would struggle
Through a ragged underbrush
Without an upward pathBecause there is no path
There is only a blunt rock
With a river to fall intoAnd Time with its medieval chambers
Time with its jagged edges
And blunt instrumentsI did not know the work of mourning
Is a labor in the dark
We carry inside ourselves