How to feel when every person has fled.
Every fair-weather friend, every half-hearted lover.
You, beset with the frailty of age and illness,
even a socialite comes to it.
A barren desert that harbors no life as far as the eye can see
where the tinkling sound of fiestas and frivolous toasts are a distant memory.
What is life devoid of love, stripped of its amorous distractions?
Left with memories of what was and will never be again.
Left with the little good you contributed.
Hiding from the selfishness, lust, and greed you justified.
When aged you dance with the truth.
Go on denying, even to your dying day.
Keep running, or face it squarely?
Admit, if only to yourself, that on many occasions
you failed to do the right thing.
Moral failures, regrets-all of us riddled with them.
Admit them to those you harmed, and peace comes.
Better to confess your shortcomings than to hear them from others.
More admirable to admit that you were flawed and human
than to clumsily go on blustering into eternity with hidden sins.
Only degrees of sin separate us.
Though the biggest person admits his doom,
he cannot nullify the price that shall be paid in the hereafter.
Only does it cleanse the conscience so he can die in peace.
Therefore, it is a good state, alone to ponder your deeds.
Try not to resent it.
Love,
Frida
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