Memento Mori Poem Novels & Stories

His voice was softer when he began, tracing each syllable with the care of someone building a bridge. “‘If I should die, think only of me,’” he said, pausing after each word to taste it. “‘That there’s some corner of a foreign field that is forever…’” “England,” I finished quietly, the old line finding its way back to me. “It’s a poem about memory. About belonging somewhere, even when you’re gone.” Liam looked at me with that sudden seriousness that children sometimes have, the kind that seems borrowed from another lifetime. “Would people remember me too?”

“Oh I shall live your epitaph to make, Or you survive when I in earth am rotten, From hence your memory death cannot take, Although in me each part would be forgotten. Your name from hence immortal shall have, Though I, once gone, to all the world must die: The earth can yield me but a common grave, When you entombed in men’s eyes shall lie. Your monument shall be my gentle verse, Which eyes not yet created shall o’er-read; And tongues to be your being shall rehearse, When all the breathers of this world are dead.

Arrogance befit no man for whatever we have today, won’t be buried with us tomorrow. ~Humeyra. HAMDAN’S P.O.V The last messages I got from Humeyra really messed me up. I didn’t know that I meant so much to her that my death would affect her as much as she said. The poem she wrote to me still lingers in my mind as I recall my heart beating to every word that her poetry entailed. The poem goes as follows:

Though the storm rocks our boats and the gentle wind eases our rows, our peace still ebbs and flows, because until our eyes are fixed beyond the sun, our nostrils will know less roses than our skin the thorns. In a of white and black world, let's be just enough to repel these filthy shades of grey. Karma is a poet, so please the arms that make you less a prey, because until our eyes are fixed beyond the sun, our nostrils will know less roses than our skin the thorns. So let us milk the cow while it is still dawn, for the night comes, when only the diligent will be able to admire the milk he weighed. Even if the sun rises on our evening wake, time will surely set on our wasted years, then our

"Drink them, and your heart desires will be granted." Ahri and Henri stared at each other and nodded their heads. They accepted the cup of tea. Five Flavored Tea of Forgetfulness, waters of oblivion. This is given to each soul to drink before reincarnation. The brew induces instant and permanent amnesia, and all memory of other lives is lost. "I will find you," says Henri before drinking the tea of forgetfulness. "I will wait for you," Ahri replied before drinking the tea.

In their language. “Memory is not what remains. It is what returns.” Eleni whispered, “It’s a gate.” Jessica looked stunned. “A gate to what?” Lena rose. “That’s the wrong question.” “Then what’s the right one?” Jessica asked. Lena stepped forward. “What do we still owe the ones we forgot?” They made camp that night beside the field. The pools hummed faintly in their sleep. Eleni collected one fungal bloom and placed it in her journal, sealing it between layers of rice paper and silence.

The graveyard was so neat. Row upon row of white marble tombstones all rising from the thick blanket of snow. Each one was perfect, polished and exactly the same as all of the others, except the name it bore. They were lined up perfectly with those in front and behind, a city block for the dead. Life is but a roaming shadow, a pitiable thespian. Who struts and frets his few moments upon the stage, and then is heard no more. It is a tale imparted by a foolish wit, full of noise and fury... yet meaningless nonetheless.

"You're being blinded by revenge, Kiddo. If that thing continues to urge you, you might end up dying in the long run." Blanche shut her eyes as she brought herself back to reality. "Memento Mori," She murmur as she imagine the target paper to be the person she wanted to annihilate at the moment. She pulls the trigger of her handgun to release the last bullet of it. "Do you really think that I am still alive? My body's irking to die, but, it seems like my physical appearance is the one's only living in this kind of place. My being already died, a long time ago. Not physically though." She utters as she slowly removes her goggles and ear muffs.

Unsure of what I could do just panting and bringing out the moisture from my body in the form of sweat, I decided to get up. Though it took a lot of will power, I got up and jumped onto the bed. I quickly dived into the bed and scooted closer to Brett. My sudden movements might have woken Brett up, as he spoke with a husky voice, thick with sleep. “You said you’d rather die.” He mumbled. “Shut up!” I said and held onto his shirt, apparently, the one which I let him borrow. The last thing I remember was the gentle rumble of his chest as a chuckle left his mouth.

His intentions might have even been true and besides, who was I to resent a facade, my whole life was a symbol of it. "Each rana mattatu, I would light a candle for them." He spoke wistfully but I was too busy repeating his words, 'the day of the dead.' I had never heard about it. "It would be nice to do that for mine sometime. Dead or not, they only require that we never forget."