ثُمَّ ٱلْجَحِيمَ صَلُّوهُ
"My father, full of marvelous stories,
At eighty-seven had a stroke,
And left untold the joys and worries
He’d lived, of which he rarely spoke.
His reticence evoked adorement,
But oh, my goodness, what a torment
To realize I would never know
The life he played pianissimo.
What unbelievable frustration —
To guess at what was left unsaid,
To learn the relatives were dead
Who might confirm my inspiration,
To muse and question in remorse:
How could I fail to ask my source!"

Resonates my thoughts