The books are wrong;
Samson is not his name,
But his last name.
Strength is his identity,
Though Jaime is what they call him.
He did not die lonely,
Nor will he ever do.
Regina Spektor got it right somehow,
As how people never do the first time;
A woman broke his heart
Whose name I cannot confirm to be Delilah,
She could have been anyone in his past.
But he married a woman named Michelle
And borne love by four beautiful children
With one which I know very well
And sometimes feel as if she were me
Or I were her.
But in his eyes I could not tell if I were her
Or she were me.
In fact, I could not see myself at all,
As if I am only, in those eyes,
A ceiling to keep from falling;
A mere test of strength,
Held up by pillars of sacrifice
And blocks of responsibility.
But I must be something else,
For there was something more
Than my nothingness in those eyes
Which keeps me from falling,
Besides those powerful hands
That steady the blocks
And secure arms
That lock the pillars;
It was his love regardless of who I am
That holds my blocks up
And embraces my pillars close;
His love which need me not contained in his eyes
For I am already contained in his heart.
I guess the writings on the wall
Failed to let us all know
That the great Samson's weakness
As well as source of strength,
Is not his hair
But his heart beneath that hard chest.
And so the legend goes,
Not with Samson's great strength,
But with his love as a husband
Which can cure a whole hospital
And as a father
Which can withstand all torture.
And his story will be told;
His love will be passed on
By his children to their children,
And they will live forever
In the name of his glory,
In the name of his triumph
Over the prophecy's false tragedy.
And not a soul will not know
Of how Jaime – the real Samson,
Was the strongest man of all.