The first of the memories I hold,
Those that have yet not flown away,
Is that of the day I told the world,
I would become a big brother once more.
First was my brother, one December,
And then her, in August's times.
For as long as I can remember,
All my life can be told in these lines:
That I am the eldest, eldest of three,
Always below me two have been,
Cheerful, joyful, we are, us three.
And above me no one is to be seen.
But is that who I was meant to be?
Or was it just I who happened,
By chance's fateful ruling,
To be not only alive, but born?
The things I have told them,
The good and beautiful,
The bad and the ugly,
Could have been to me told, then.
And I could have been the little one,
And him (perhaps her?) the wise one;
The one I wouldn't listen to,
Or at least pretend not to.
But I am not a little brother.
I have none older to bother.
You, out into the world were never roused,
Instead perished, in that first homely house.
And could I wonder why,
Demanding reasons from the Heavens?
When how could I mourn,
For one that was, but never was?
I am the eldest. Always have been.
But I do hope, I dare hope,
That on God's country green,
The little one, I can be.