
My boss loss his father last Sunday and went straight to the airport from the bedside. That's tough, and in that loss I remember my own father's disappearance; I returned home from a holiday to a quiet household, his body already gone. Lord Tennyson's poem Morte d'Arthur is a special piece for me because if this little piece as Arthur dying is placed in a barge and set off.
More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice Rise like a fountain for me night and day. For what are men better than sheep or goats That nourish a blind life within the brain, If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer Both for themselves and those who call them friend?Losses may be necessary, an inevitable part of life but that does not diminish the pain created by an absence, by the space left empty in a life. Freedom isn't everything.
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