“Only remembered” by what we have done


Our colleague Mr Jeremy Harmer closed the LABCI Conference in our beautiful Montevideo today at noon. He spoke about how difficult and how important it is to end something in a proper manner, and he was not referring to the protocol but to the way one needs to finish things so as to be fulfilled by joy and peace.

He chose a wide array of resources to make his point clear, all of which adopted with an exquisite sensitivity and refinement, gifts for the soul…

Among them he singled out this song and sang it almost a cappella…so beautiful, unforgettable. The song is called “Only remembered” and it goes:

Fading away like the stars of the morning,
Losing their light in the glorious sun—
Thus would we pass from the earth and its toiling,
Only remembered by what we have done.

Only remembered, only remembered,
Only remembered by what we have done;
Thus would we pass from the earth and its toiling,
Only remembered by what we have done.

Shall we be missed though by others succeeded,
Reaping the fields we in springtime have sown?
No, for the sowers may pass from their labors,
Only remembered by what they have done.

Only the truth that in life we have spoken,
Only the seed that on earth we have sown;
These shall pass onward when we are forgotten,
Fruits of the harvest and what we have done.

While listening to Jeremy singing the song and quoting T.S. Eliot “What we call the end is the beginning (…)” I had a similar feeling Carol Ann Duffy provoked in me when she read “Hive” out loud in Manchester last April…I was completely enchanted by their art, like a child listening to mum at night…looking forward to the new beginning:

All day we leave and arrive at the hive,

concelebrants. The hive is love,

what we serve, preserve, avowed in Latin murmurs

as we come and go, skydive, freighted

with light, to where we thrive, us, intime’s hum,

on history’s breath,

                          industrious, identical….

there suck we,

alchemical, nectar-slurred, pollen-furred,

the world’s mantra us, our blurry sound

along the thousand scented miles to the hive,

haven, where we unpack our foragers;

or heaven-stare, drone-eyed, for a queen’s star;

or nurse or build in milky, waxy caves,

the hive, alive, us – how we behave.

Carol Ann Duffy



T.S. Elliot


By adrianadelossantos

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