The following is a series of 64 individual poems, collectively called:

MEMOIRES DE LA PUCELLE D’FRANCAISE

© 2003

Written by

Edward R. Paul, Jr.

Your eyes betray your soul, o soldiers!

The bad women you would bring on this journey are like unleavened bread:

Their bodies hold them down unto the Earth, and they cannot rise above it….

My voices tell me that purity is the only road for France….

If you would have me lead you, o soldiers, your morality must be as white as the lamb’s….

I see the downtrodden and poor of France, with not but their tears to befriend them…

The vandals of the north overthrow our lovely green hills,

And our people search at the dawn of each new day for a chosen one to come….

Now you say, my voices, that I am that spark to alight the fires of hope in this land…

Alright,….but make my ladder towards Heaven all that stronger, please, and make it of the brass of unbent faith, o you saints of our beloved God, for I shall climb it with each step on Earth…

My mother sits, in the evening, like an unwatered plant, staring at the wall…

Her only joy comes when she holds a babe, or sees me or Pierre…

My father is as the brick wall, strong, yet breaking at the seam of war’s stress.

Age holds the beacon of knowledge and the cream of experience,

And yet it must be left to this child of France to water the plants of its heart and make strong the wall of the pitiful will of this my overrun country…

Thou art not a bird, angel, and yet the wings lie fast upon thee like the dove’s..

And when you speak, your song is sweet, making me rise almost off of the earth…

If thou art angel, please take me with thee to where there are no problems like this forgotten place.

You do not move your lips, and yet I hear such volumes of pure love gush forth,

Making my heart full of real joy that is tantamount to rebirth without pain…May I touch your heart?

On a fair day in Domremy, I saw a cup lying empty on my table at home….

All about me were crying about the fact we had no milk or bread….

In my prayers, some days after a raid, I told God I loved Him even though there be no blessing of food nor drink…

The next day some neighbors brought us, of their own volition, a pitcher of milk, and three loaves of newly baked bread….

I still told my Lord I loved Him even if there had not been His show of troth towards us….

I see the captured English, cowering like baited foxes, whimpering or saying such insult,

They call me a witch, or a whore, and would have me swallow such words…..

Now you, my fellow soldiers, bade me stab them in their wounds already deep set w. affliction….

Say I, La Pucelle, the only way to help ourselves is to show compassion to our enemy….

Christ had been smote likewise, and who are we to claim we are His better….

Turn thy head, o France…

You set before me gold, lovely clothes and goblets filled with the finest wine of the continent.

You honor me by giving me a title and shout my name like a clarion in the streets of Rheims.

You call me beloved of God, an angel, or spirit that walks the Earth….

All these you do for La Pucelle, a common girl whose duty lies with the sheep of Lorraine…

I say to you who flower early: do not take pleasure with part of your pasture clear,

While the other two-third full is still beset by wolves and would be turncoats…

On a fair day in Domremy, I saw a cup lying empty on my table at home….

All about me were crying about the fact we had no milk or bread….

In my prayers, some days after a raid, I told God I loved Him even though there be no blessing of food nor drink…

The next day some neighbors brought us, of their own volition, a pitcher of milk, and three loaves of newly baked bread….

I still told my Lord I loved Him even if there had not been His show of troth towards us….

I see the captured English, cowering like baited foxes, whimpering or saying such insult,

They call me a witch, or a whore, and would have me swallow such words…..

Now you, my fellow soldiers, bade me stab them in their wounds already deep set w. affliction….

Say I, La Pucelle, the only way to help ourselves is to show compassion to our enemy….

Christ had been smote likewise, and who are we to claim we are His better….

Turn thy head, o France…

You set before me gold, lovely clothes and goblets filled with the finest wine of the continent.

You honor me by giving me a title and shout my name like a clarion in the streets of Rheims.

You call me beloved of God, an angel, or spirit that walks the Earth….

All these you do for La Pucelle, a common girl whose duty lies with the sheep of Lorraine…

I say to you who flower early: do not take pleasure with part of your pasture clear,

While the other two-third full is still beset by wolves and would be turncoats…

I have heard that the king goes through his coffers daily,

Figuring out what he might keep in abstinence from this war….

In the meantime, our soldiers are hungry, ill of supplies and in need of medical attention.

This army cannot function with only a one armed sword, and the other arm tied behind its back.

To go on, we must, but it is without virtue to leave the men, even when they pray, without temporal needs, supplied by only the wind as the reward…

I saw the young English soldier struggling to get up, his look wild with rigorous consternation,

He could not see me, for his head had received an ominous blow, cutting deep along one eye….

He was asking for assistance, whereupon none of our marching army stopped to help him.

Because he was part of the army of mankind, I stopped and gave him words of comfort.

Later on, when the battles cleared, he claimed that La Pucelle had given him his sight….

I saw the little Troyes chapel through the mists of late afternoon, and was exceedingly happy…

And as we entered in from the front, I could see that it was in a state of ill repair,

But, it being the house of God, we lightened our loads and said Mass with help from our priest.

The men, who were tired, did so only because I had insisted that we offer up our commitments.

Le Hire and others were happier once we had given our hearts to God, but in spirit, not words…

I am most comforted by Saint Margaret and Catherine, who are here often before me…

I see them dressed in gold, with crowns upon their heads, and they speak through the spirit..

When I have heard them, and spoken to them, I have often cried, to be so blessed while just Jehanne….

They have told me, "Jehanne, we are the ambassadors of Heaven, and you must listen to us."

You will not believe it, but I can see and touch them just as I can do with you, and it is grand!

MEMOIRES DE LA PUCELLE D’FRANCAISE

This pleasing mist, which travels over the ground, tingles through my flesh…

The answers without questions which come from the face in the mist gives more than happiness.

On the brow of my lady in the mist lies a star, which shines brighter than the sun…

It is Catherine, who comforts me with lessons from above, in the late afternoon shade.

The visage holds me speechless, giving comfort from the shepherd, who loves me as a handmaiden for His flock on Earth…

All of mine heart lies ready as the wheel, to traverse the roads of France for God…

I see ahead roads and roads, and at the end of them, troubles that must be given salve,

And the loneliest of wretches must be included in that salve, says my voices….

God has chosen me, a little stream, to bear the cascades of a roaring river,

But I shall bear those waters of care, and deposit them at the great ocean, with His help, along with any who hear my voice or believe it..

The arrow cuts through my shoulder, carrying with it the greatest pain I have ever known…

All of the faces of France showed fear, then concern,…and then anger, for my being smote so hard.

The cheers of the English, at the first sight of my blood, was as the hyena laughing for its dinner…

As I lay under the ladder, drenched in blood, I became resolved to take strength from this blow,

So much so that I told myself it should be as a second banner, not to alarm any who felt it too…

The dauphin is the heir by blood to the throne of France, and for better or worse he is chosen..

God recognizes His afflicted France and has gathered up its souls in His chalice…

He has said that for us to be as one, that I must lighten the load of the oppressed by leading His army…

It is easy to criticize a man, but if he were a man of God’s choice, what can you say then?

Willingly I subjugate my soul and body to God’s words, and the dauphin will accompany me to victory in but a second of God’s time….

I see that darkened figure with his scythe, alone, coming towards my table.

It is my old neighbor, Death, who knew me as a child in Domremy…

I cannot offer him my horse, for it’s got a rider, France, upon its back.

Yet Death needs no means for transport; it lies hard upon us, all around these woods…

If he would but take me, Jehanne, and free France from its enemies, I would be his eager guest….

But Death wants me too, and most of all because my soul lies unblemished without soil.

In my cell, I can see the trappings of man’s fears: blade, rope, gun and fire accost my human mind…..Alas!

I can see, inside my timeless eye, the soul of France falling, like a teardrop through the sky….

In a dark place I, Jehanne, am given a chair to sit upon, and to sign my life away by pledging crimes I have done…..Alas!

What dreams these may be will be realities tomorrow, when the executioner comes between the dawn’s first light and me….

I am such a light, one flicker and than gone, but all that France can see by, for this moment’s sight…

I have told my men to lie disciplined: to align their minds and bodies with God’s right….

And yet, soldiers are mortal, and, as such, are prone towards sin, but sins are like dead weights to our cause this day…

I tell them they must drink the blood of salvation and the bread of strength, and they grumble…

Only our savior can make France’s army strong, and that strength must grow through belief, which the men don’t understand.

Yet Charles knows and believes in me, and my men believe in me to the death, so they become as flowers, unwatered before, yet blooming with my hand…

If I did but doubt a second, that second would be a minute, and the minute an hour,

But, this feather that touches God’s beard can never doubt, for this feather is a part of the wing of His angel…

I am also likened to the rose, which lies sweet as licorice, and has petals made from God’s tears.

I am a growing rose, blowing free for France, and cannot doubt my own craftiness…

All doubt was erased when God came to me through his sweet angels, with their prolific voices…

I only am amazed at God using me as His instrument-a girl, tiny, meek and quiet:

Trouble for the English camouflaged in a comforting wrap…

What you see before you is a girl, nothing but a girl, not a Samson or a David.

If you would take encouragement from me, take it from my power of will….

If I did not tell you the truth, I would not be standing here in the face of death’s door….

Look at me: if I had not taken courage from my Lord, I would never have come to Chinon,

Nor tried to fulfill the ancient prophecy which came from the Dawn of Time…

And, if you truly believe in me, you will find a strength that has no better, for it is through God’s own zeal.

God’s enemies are alive on French soil, wanting to break our homes, bodies and futures….

I see a dark night, and lights parading in the distance towards the besieged Orleans…

When the enemy sees our progression along the river, they will turn white with fear,

As a dingo caught in the mighty lion’s lair would feel….

Yet, all in all, I bring peace to France, and not strife, peace without a dingo to fear…

A star projects itself in the firmament of Heaven, bright like the sun….

It is there where I go, upon release from my earthly mission, as promised by God…

It is that promise I bring each of you who would break bread with me before battle.

If you seek through the Father, there is the way for you, also, to His golden kingdom…

The knocking at the door and the dragging out of the children…. Setting fire to the thatched, earthen roofs…

The occupation of another country’s heart, so that it cannot beat its normal tick….

The bludgeoning of the land, which goes against God’s wishes, turns eyes to black, hearts to unbending stone…

This is the unforgivable rape of France, whose right to life was granted her by God Himself…

If I had no blood, no house, no soul, that is how I, Jehanne, would then live my life under the English, but this is not what I wish. It is rather what I rage against…

The mile long gates of Paris stand fast against our swords, till they break in the maelstrom…

The solitude renders our hearts useless, as the King has had us wait too long against the enemy.

Our blood stains the ground and flies through the wind, like rain water on a boulder, with no gain or succor to go on…

The assault of Paris is too hard, as we have little men and supplies, and what we have lies in a state of shadows…. We have lost the edge of surprise, which was our ally…

It is perhaps meaningful that this happened; it shall force our troops to take stalk of what went on before, and to force the king to listen to his pucelle a little better than before…

A moment surrendered to God’s tomes, His pleasing breath of kindness, and the pearly wisdom of His angels form my heritage, my love and fond desires on Earth…

The songs of the chapel ring in my ears, now as when I was a child, approximating the winds and blessings that abide in Heaven…

The right to do right for God’s cause here in France, makes the English risk a pesky bug on my hand, whose efforts I shall shake off by the strength of God’s sword…

Faith is the bulwark of my heart, whose guidelines are not of this world.

It is as the grass lying in abundance for the steed; my faith does feed me as well…For then I move, in a full strong body, regardless of time, day or situation…

The thought that my body is naught but a transcendent device pities those who would torment me…

The renunciation of this human form to take another more wiser, is somehow strangely appealing…

And, as the morrow flashes across my eyes, and its portents for death, I think of all those golden summers in Domremy.

Fear is but a fan to calm my brow as I wait for the moment of departure on tomorrow’s salient barge….

And I shall fear none harm, for my Father is with me, and I trust my hand to His, before all others…

I saw a spot on my hand, and it had all of the revenues of life within….

This crumb of bread was my commission for another day on the soil of France, and was all I needed…

A drop of dew from my rose outside was all of the sweet nectar from God which I ever desired, so as not to waste…

I should not drown myself in foodstuffs when the Earth has so much more of substance for my heart…

One glance at the hill or dale, in a free France, would subdue me with such that a banquet never could!!….

A man who is free to walk the streets of Orleans or Liege without oppression rings true bells in my heart….

I would feel like a song, especially if no blood spilled, when that tune that I whistle spells freedom’s name….

And if it takes the sweat on thousands of brows to let us hear it, so sweet will be the toil….

No olive branch from God’s little dove can be obtained on a planet of war without Her blood falling, I fear…

But I would not have it so if it were not meant to be such; the truth will let us conquer tyranny, and surely make us free.

There is night, and there is day, and just as I am your pucelle, I tell you that a glorious day shall overcome night!!

In an instant, seemingly, what once was the dirge of death in our land shall become right…

There is night, and there is day, and just as I am your friend, I tell you that the enemy will realize they cannot rule the day, which we build in our hearts for Mother France….

Within seven years this land will be totally free, as angels of the Lord have told me this…

If you would invest in just one thought, invest in this: once a day breaks, in my name, it will share so much light as to fill the eyes and the hearts of France, until our patriots rush to the sea shouting freedom….

Those who would do war for the sword’s sake can have no friend in me,

For I have my men draw blood only as means to France’s rebirth, and not as a game……….

To see those dying in the trenches, even the English oppressors, excites in me a response of fear,

That the almighty would not exact me for it, should it not be a last respite to His kingdom…

When I look at a young soul, dying in his youth and splendor, I see a man with mine own face strewn with tears.

My father, who awaits in Heaven, has drawn many a tear over man….

He alone can give guidance at close of day, when man has overdrawn his welcome amongst the friends.

He alone knows and cares enough to keep us steadfast during this weary war….

If I had not the spirit upon me, when others assail my mission and wisdom, I would cough up my life.

But, in the valley of the beast, mine God comforts my eyes, and lets my tears offer up my love for Him, and France.

You ask, Cauchon, whether I am in the grace of God’s love?

If I was not, would I, a lowly maid, been allowed to do His blessing, to save Mother France?

And, if by some miracle I was not blessed, I would ask Him to make it so now,

So that whatsoever lives in me, known as beneficent, may grow to attend His flowers,

So those troubled enough and in need might take my sword into their heart of hearts, and kiss the lamb…

Once, upon the road to Beaugency, I attended a foot soldier overcome with the sword….

His wound was about 16 inch. right along his spleen, but so far, unattended.

I bent, as at His alter, and after a prayer, I kissed the wound, so that those in attendance could know mercy…

Although my doctors had called the gaping trauma mortal, I later learned the man, Declos, had lived,

And neither did he suffer more after my minute with him, but now is at our flanks again, which they say could not be.

Where Heaven is, I was assured that all with good hearts might assemble, just as at we gathered to the gates of Orleans.

My good angel Michael has given me assurance that a seat for me rests there, along with many saints….

It is for that reason, amongst others, that I turn my coat towards the roads and battlements of war…

In mine eyes, God has the voice from which I grow to live, each moment of each day,

And what latitudes I take, with His blessing, are the right ways to go, even unto death, however rigorous

I have dreamed often of Domremy, and its superlatives….

Yet, lest I be thought of as ungrateful for my charge,

I must say that home is where the heart rests, and mine is in Heaven…

I had troubles in my village, especially with Father,

Who would have me darn, weave and tend his sheep before all else…

Now, since my home has expanded, I do somewhat the same things:

I darn up the wounds of the French lost before the blades of England,

I sew together that fabric of man that can be entrusted with our future,

And I tend His people whom he has given forth His love, and His shepherdess……..

It is because of my innocence that I have been taken to God..

He has taken me, cradled to His hand, and shown me many magical things.

It is because I would be unsmitten with sadness and meanness that I was chosen.

No one may brag about his affiliation to God lest he was innocent of vanity,

Which I am, and as blest for it, I should remain with the sheep hidden by the worthy shepherd………

It is especially good to be kind, for kindness, like sugar, lies sweet on the soul…

If I could not be kind, I would surely lie removed from this orb,

To be dumbstruck and oblivious, lying otherwise in the heavens a-piece….

But I am struck to show goodness where ‘ere it is dismantled, and give love…

If those who I grant it to will not bring it to their hearts, I shall still do good for them in my absence………

Many times I have been asked why I have not married…

I answer with a slight tear, "I am married, but my love is only in spirit, and is above!"

Others say, "When you are gone, how will we know your progeny?"

I can only say that my virtues shall act as my children: hope, faith and charity…

They are sweet kindred, never far from my heart…. Can you hear them singing?

All through my land of Domremy there are many wonderful sights of nature…

We have deer in Lorraine, you know, speckled with white spots and owning beautiful fawns.

There are little ponds and rivulets, which sparkle like diamonds in the moon…

There is one special tree, our fairy tree, which I used to play around with my friends.

And, if you listen carefully, you can hear the pipes of an angel, since I have heard them on lazy afternoons…

My obedience is to God only, as His word is blessed.

For the little girl, Jehanne, lies smitten and mild before Him.

All colors, all values, all sparrows, high with hope, and the meadows flower before His word….

And night is suffered to be His ointment, His salve for us to replenish ourselves

Before the morn’s smattering ambiguities tickle our approaches………

My land lies oppressed, with its sky wan, its mood darkened by alligator attackers,

And, sans hope, sans energy, sans momentum, I obey God to make my shadow a beacon.

These cool glades of France, often caught with pools of blood, beckon me on…

Through the lilac of summer, the snows of winter and the rains of devout spring,

I will cast my ring towards Orleans, and let the blood fall, should it be necessary………

It is for peace why we French lie bloodied, senseless in the roads of our land!

We are not the ombudsmen of the world, to make all our works known to the Earth,

But, rather, we salute and would follow God’s reverie, for its worth and loveliness…

It is for the dissolving of the war entities that we kiss and move the swords of war…

Bellowing dogs from the north would stir our bones in their coffers of glory…It shall not occur!

I have been struck dumb for my wish for life, yet we shall persevere towards God’s kingdom.

Take may hand, France, and hold onto it but awhile, for the time has come for our resurrection!

With your hearts rife with love, come calling with me towards the battle, as it beckons….

Do not wander far from glory, as it is surely found with hearts open and honest.

Alone we are lost, but together we shall be like banners raised high on white chargers with freedom rising too…

Should we stumble on our mission, stop and say a prayer, with some humility before God..

Do not look onward without His advice, for the world is not smitten with our tears….

Should we happen to find the direction, here, in our heart of hearts, then it is time to move.

If we cast off our pride and desires for the sincere effort of simple truths, we will live onward,

For tomorrow lies beautiful, and honest, somewhere inside us…

It is part of mine house, France, which has rejected me and called me heretic…

Not those who would re-unify our country and purge out the English destroyers.

Those of you who would love me, then love my cause with its handiworks for the future.

You, England, and your concubines of Burgundy, are no part of this structure.

Fester in that annex beyond the limits of our heart, the limits of our swords and conscience!

You say that you would place your faith in me, a mere girl of the country hills…

But I say to you that our faith must be on the rock of Zion, and on God’s shoulders alone….

Do not praise me for my accomplishments, and then dismiss as whimsy my claim of His sword!

Those pirates of France say they fight with God, but their claim is false as their tongue…

I charge you, soldiers, to believe first in God, then in me as His standard bearer…For God makes it possible for me, and thus to you as well…

SALVATION D’FRANCE

You have long wished to know my strength and my resource for my mission…

It is simple: God is my strength and my redeemer…. Only through Him am I strong as The Maid.

When I, as a child, made myself known to God, He accepted me as his own child,

Giving me that salvation which my heart was longing for, that same strength which can go your way…

It is thus, that if your heart touches God’s salvation, you are already saved, even beyond this war’s embittered sores…

I am the season of rejoicing, the autumn of my days bringing life to the tree…

For you, o France, it is my happiest time, even though my end comes with a whisper.

The sadness you will feel should resound with happiness as well,

For God truly wishes you free, and He has told me through my voices the same.

The time of winter is past, the rain is fled and over…. The turtledove will be heard again in our land to herald the flowers, which shall come as children with happy voices…

I am the season of rejoicing, the autumn of my days bringing life to the tree…

For you, o France, it is my happiest time, even though my end comes with a whisper.

The sadness you will feel should resound with happiness as well,

For God truly wishes you free, and He has told me through my voices the same.

The time of winter is past, the rain is fled and over…. The turtledove will be heard again in our land to herald the flowers, which shall come as children with happy voices…

Liege, if I tell you the secrets of thy heart, would you be assuaged?

Would you then believe in the Maid of France, and her destiny?

There are those among us who would tell you I am an imposter.

And they would easier slip by the eye of the needle than enter into Heaven!

It is with surety that I say thou art the rightful heir to our throne, and are not a false claimant.

Your look of amazement tells me that I am not wrong in choosing your secret, sacred to your God, and the soul who tells you such news………

Those of you that call yourself my judges, do not appear so proud…

You would provoke me so to anger unless you show yourselves to be worthy of God’s kingdom!

You tell me that I am a heretic and a blasphemer that should be cast out of the church.

And all of you, who sit in high places with drawn faces, say you are my betters….

Let me say to you men: if a man thinks himself to be something, when he is nothing,

he truly deceives his own soul…and you are very ripe in deception…

There is an old saying: if your right eye offends thee, pluck it out!!

Likewise, if I had seen myself sin towards the master I would tear that sin from me…

It is as you would cure a sore upon your hand, stopping the injury in God’s eyes, and sin not.

It is as a child catching his thumb in a purse, knowing not his deed a forehand.

But afterwards he is most offensive, for he knows his actions are as scarlet…

Just as my body lies forsaken, I hope you will take up Lord my spirit.

As the English would burn the flesh, I would have my spirit watered by the eternal candle.

These English would triumph by might and power, but they know not the avenue to paradise.

Salvation comes through a breath from Heaven, and His angels have shown me that way…

My flesh, being weak, has been prone to deny myself and my life’s fruit, but know it is not so, France, for, in the end of my days, my inner self will rise above the temerity of the body…

When you call God’s name out in vain, men, like sprinkling feed to the roosters,

You belittle yourselves and me, as well as our purpose for the English defeat…

Do not believe that I envision you, my soldiers, as common men…

It is on the contrary: I see you as fighting beyond the petty bonds of Earth,

Taken as one, God’s Army, to fight for our freedom with no human bonds or convictions…

My God, I give thee thanks for the victory you helped us achieve this day…

I had often worried that we could not do this, as the men were unfocused on their prize.

Yet, it is through suffering much that we have achieved this little triumph in your eyes…

We enter these gates of Orleans with thanksgiving, Lord, and into Rheims with praise of thee!

What is captured here is material, and yet what is prized most is of thy spirit, oh, my dear God…

With sorrow and tears, I remember our chosen dead, who have been swept off this harsh Earth…

My tears, if captured, would surely fill a reservoir, crying out to Heaven….

You say that we have lost much, here in the town of Paris, but we will forget this misery soon.

For surely God will comfort us with yet another victory, perhaps even greater than before…

And irrespective of mortal victories, God will turn our tears, even at the last hour, into smiles of joy, even at the sword’s last gleaming!

If, as for blood taking, we can avoid killing one soldier, it is to be wished for immensely…

When you, my fellow Frenchmen, take a prisoner, do not avenge yourself and yours upon him.

Rather, give him your cloak and your loaf of bread, as if to recall what our Savior did always…

The spilling of blood to affect an end is one thing. The spilling of blood for retribution only is bad…

Let the Lord alone capture His vengeance in His own fashion…As for us, let us capture France!

Those of you who will follow me into battle this day must realize I am not perfect…

There are, in each of us, things perfect and things imperfect, and so it is with me…

Those of you who would grasp onto humility would be grasping something dressed w. perfection.

Another virtue radiant with perfection is the salve of charity, which can make you seem simple.

Vanity, laziness, avarice and hate in your heart are imperfect, and abhorred by God the Father!

This war of France and England is a storm we must sail through to get to our homes.

Dwell in your hearts on the beauty of your loved ones, your babes and your futures.

The swinging of axes, blades and clubs are transient things, soon forgotten in God’s kingdom.

The bond you make this day with me and France will see you through to the other side…

And remember, do not put your faith in your sword, but rather in the Lord, thy God!!

WEDDING IN YOUTH, FOREVER SPLENDID

It was foreseen that a maiden of Lorraine would forsake her body in the present time

to marry in spirit with the cup of God in Heaven, tied by honor and glory…

And now, seemingly, from this hour, all my directions will be resplendent with His blessings.

Once my spirit was joined to Heaven, I could not again look upon this world as inviting,

Yet I will still do His bidding, freeing my native country with His arm, His words and His strength…

There is no boon in worrying, as it takes away from the hours of decision,

for it is my belief that we must use each minute and hour to benefit our cause.

It matters not what I eat, or drink, nor even about the state of mine body…

If my voices had not told me to dress simply as the soldier does, I would not care for dress.

God takes care of us all in due time, from birth to death, when life blooms eternal…