Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone...

Efter 10 triste hårde dage døde min far efter mange års hjertesygdom...

men døden bliver man nok aldrig klar til.

men nu er alting parat...

Kirken klar, ordene skrevet, blomster bestilt.

W. H. Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

© Copyright The Estate of W. H. Auden, 1976, 1991. All Rights Reserved.

Jeg savner dig far. du er elsket og allerede savnet og du er ikke engang sendt afsted endnu...

ikke den bedste start på julen 2011...

håber på et bedre og lykkebringende nytår for alle år 2012.

R.I.P. Jozef Wronski
17/2-46 - 16/12-1011