Forty-four years ago Four died...with them, a nation died Without knowing it.
4 May 2014 ("Tin soldiers and Nixon coming We're finally on our own This summer I hear the drumming Four dead in Ohio.
Gotta get down to it Soldiers are gunning us down Should have been done long ago What if you knew her And saw her dead on the ground? How can you run when you know?" Neil Young)
There's a tradition in Zen (especially in Japan) of writing a "death poem." The tradition is that a monk, on his deathbed, spontaneously recites his final poem, which is recorded by his pupils. I have my own take on what really happens, which is...well, read this one. (And, you can buy the book, Japanese Death Poems, Yoel Hoffman, trans, and ed,, at Amazon and elsewhere.)
"Writing my death poem." "But you're not on your death bed." "But, now, I have time."