There is an old saying that no day is guaranteed to us. I believe in that saying. Just as new life is born into this world, there are people dying every hour, every day. Just as life is all around us, so is death.
The leaves on the trees eventually fade from green to brown, the end of life. The flowers fade and the petals fall to the ground. The birds once flying through the skies fall and lay on the ground. It is inevitable. All living things in this world come to an end eventually. Even our planet will one day far off in the future cease to exist.
When I was younger I thought death was something far away; sadly, it could happen a mere 5 minutes from now.
Over the past few years I have been making music as a so-called home-recording artist. I have toiled much to create music that I know I like and perhaps others may enjoy as well. I recently realized that there will come a day when there will be no more making of music from Floyd Kelly; there will not be any more input from me into our world. I will be gone. With that in mind, I wrote my own elegy which I hope, if found, will be recited at my memorial, whenever that time arrives. I wrote my elegy as an allegory; and also to inspire others who read or hear it.
What follows is the graphic image which is a music CD insert published with my music album “Saying My Goodbyes”. It is also shown below as text for search engines. If you find this, I give you permission to recite it at any service.
Here is the text:
Saying my Goodbyes
From the frozen echoes of star dust in flight,
far beyond the guide star Pegasi; to reflecting upon water’s blue light –
The Universe is beyond the colors we’ve seen.
Still, the stars of old know nothing of me.
Through the ages, our hearts have echoed through the mountains of lore;
Impugned upon the creations of life; a paradox against the casts of realm.
Wisdom says, all have been tasked to go steadfastly true; so go forth we do.
From the valleys of despair, to the cogs of industry;
from the cries of the belly, to the pinnacles of the ego;
one may only see all the colors when two is two.
When a rusty violet is born with no choice to behold, enduring the stories of old;
The stars cry out in deep sympathies, weeping songs of what is told.
For, in our true selves, we say not words of disdain upon the flowers,
nor to the brothers, nor to the sisters on life’s stage;
for there is a grand story in us all, in the flowers and age.
The passion of the winter blackbird; the call of the wild;
echoes through eternity even before the stars beguiled.
The long dark journey finally may rest.
The star dust has another quest.
Cloaked in memories; shadowed with sorrows;
Emboldened with heartfelt good and true –
Whether my place be on glistening white shores, lush fields of green,
or a shining star far away – the beacons of hope
shall always guide me in a very special way.