Ojalá pudiéramos construir para nuestro amigo paredes de
sueños que le negaran la entrada a la tristeza.
Como consolar a un padre que ha
perdido lo más preciado que nos ha sido dado?
La vida se piensa de una manera y
tuerce el rumbo en un instante. La querida presencia se convierte,
abruptamente, en ausencia irreparable.
Uno piensa: eso no puede ser. Y,
sin embargo, lo que cabe decir es que no
debe ser.
La pérdida de un hijo obliga al
padre a enfrentarse al abismo de la desesperanza.
Todo lo que podemos hacer sus
amigos es tomarlo de la mano y hacerle saber que no está solo en su momento de
infinita congoja.
Y compartir la carga en lo posible.
Y llorar con él.
John Donne nos dijo:
La muerte no debe sentirse
orgullosa…
aunque se lleve a los mejores….
Después de un breve sueño,
despertaremos eternamente
Y la muerte dejará de existir…
Y el Salmo 23:
Aunque pase por un valle tenebroso,
ningún mal temeré…
Death, be
not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and
dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those
whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not,
poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest
and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much
pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest
our best men with thee do go,
Rest of
their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art
slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost
with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy
or charms can make us sleep as well
And better
than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short
sleep past, we wake eternally
And death
shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
Death, be
not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and
dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those
whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not,
poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest
and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much
pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest
our best men with thee do go,
Rest of
their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art
slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost
with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy
or charms can make us sleep as well
And better
than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short
sleep past, we wake eternally
And death
shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
Death, be
not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and
dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those
whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not,
poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest
and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much
pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest
our best men with thee do go,
Rest of
their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art
slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost
with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy
or charms can make us sleep as well
And better
than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short
sleep past, we wake eternally
And death
shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
Death, be
not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and
dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those
whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not,
poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest
and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much
pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest
our best men with thee do go,
Rest of
their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art
slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost
with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy
or charms can make us sleep as well
And better
than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short
sleep past, we wake eternally
And death
shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
Death, be
not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and
dreadful, for thou art not so;
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