When I peruse the years that have passed

and scan the lines of my diurnal course,

images, both sweet and bitter, alight

upon the screen of memory:

some of undiluted bliss,

others starkly macabre;

yet others indistinguishably bitter-sweet,

burned indelible into the weave

of every fibre of my heart.

I sense my memory’s recording angel’s

greater readiness to erase

the sights and sounds of pure happiness

no less than those of horror;

but fain to surrender

the marks of bitter-sweet experience,

for they abide with uncommon

meaning and intent.

The lessons of the past –

not to be forgotten –

tell the tale of gladness,

not without its cost;

and of sadness, commingling intimate

in the dance of life with joy.

So no reason do I see

of ultimate regret;

but from the marriage of joy

and sadness

processes the child I call

“Thanksgiving”:

conceived in pain, knit in ecstasy,

extolling both the one and the other,

denying to neither the honour

of noble parentage.

So let this offspring lead me

for the remainder of my days;

its limpid eyes looking into mine,

to empower me

when the way is steep;

and be there when the road is ended, and

my eyes are closed in sleep.

- Mervyn Carapiet