Diaspora (A Brief History of Time)

So long it's been since I've been
    able to ride
Watch, and remember my generation
Death brings such shame to those
    it so selects
As if in payment for settling all debts
Who would not be, given such flattery
As the newspaper's tones and
   acquaintances' recollections
The closest grief always the most
   complex
And none of the dead are vain, not at all
For all the vain die way too soon, of envy
The dead learn much more than the living
With no way to use it and nothing to impart
Left are the ones glad to let go their claims
Entitled, as they still are, to their names
Places where they are called and honored
Clouds on the horizon, pussywillows
Bare trees in a marsh not that desolate
In time the beauty of women becomes
Heartbreaking, or are they all just girls now?
These days you know I must measure my beer
In smaller cups, so I may drink the more
The light coming low in the afternoon
High on the hills and not in the valley
Night before Thanksgiving, someone dying
I could say he was my friend, but what would
It matter; I could visit and it's been
A bright and spectacular November
If he made it, who would call him hero?
He followed his path just as surely
Both sides of the river, we die the same
Too tired to travel means you've arrived
I ride with strangers and stars that never were
Mexicans and old women and the gone
Many were exiled, some were redeemed