Funeral blues

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 the aeroplanes circle moaning overhead.

Scribbling on the sky the message: "SHE is dead".

Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves.

Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

SHE 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 forever. I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now, put out everyone.

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.

- W. H. Auden

Ronja Røverdatter

født: forsommeren 2001

beriket livet mitt: 31.august 2001

død: 31.januar 2012 

Tapet er det største, det verste, det vondeste - og sorgen likeså. Ordene sitter fast i hjertet. Jeg kommer til å skrive et lengre innlegg når jeg føler meg klar. Til da blir det nok litt stille her.