Another year almost past. And with it, another birthday, unbidden, a reminder of mortality, the frailty and finality of life etched deeper into a sunken face.
Sad, isn’t it?
Shall I sit back, content with my vapid achievements, looking forward with fearful respect toward “that undiscovered country, from whose bourne no traveler returns?”
Hell no, I’m not gonna do that!
Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Dylan Thomas
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