How rarely all these few years, as
work keeps us aloof,
Or fares, or one thing or another,
Have we had days to spend
under our parents' roof:
Myself my sister, and my brother.
All five of us will die; to reckon
from the past
This flesh and blood is
unforgiving.
What's hard is that just one of us
will be the last
To bear it all and go on living.