It's Too Late For Tears

Don't waste your tears on me, now that I'm gone.
Don't stand at my graveside and sing me a song.
You didn't come visit me while I was living.
So why bother acting now, like you are grieving?
You dressed all up fancy to come to my burial.
You said words of comfort, as if it were natural.
You made sure folks noticed you there at my grave.
You made a great show of the flowers you gave.

I lay in the hospital, lonely and sad.
To have you come visit, would have made me so glad.
But you said, "No time. I'm too busy living."
You thought all along that I'd be forgiving.
You took it for granted that I'd understand
That you couldn't bother to come hold my hand.
Well, now I've passed on. It's too late, my friend.
Your teardrops and flowers will not make amends.

I can't see your bouquets, folks, now that I'm dead.
I won't see the gravestone that's placed at my head.
I can't hear the eulogy the preacher is saying.
I won't know the cost for my funeral they're paying.
I don't care at all who shows up at my grave.
It won't make a difference if a big wake they gave.

The flowers, the gravestone, the praises, the cost:
These mean nothing at all. On me they're now lost.
So you who are living, please heed what I say:
If you have a sick friend, go visit today.
If you wait for tomorrow, it may be too late.
Please, friend, take the time. Do not hesitate.


- Helen Dowd -

[ by Helen Dowd Copyright © 2003, (helendowd@shaw.ca) -- {used with permission} ]