To my fellow seniors, with love
The year of lasts is upon us.
The year of
One last Irish jig
One last Victory March
One last Alma Mater
This year of
The last dorm mass
The last finals prayer
The last Grotto candle
This, the year of
Final tailgates and marshmallow fights
Last love thees and candle light dinners
This is the year of one last first
Of walking up those sacred stairs
for the first time in life
And the last time as a student
This is the year of the harvest
When our brief, tumultuous, glorious domerhoods
Will transcend into memory —
four years made full
With friends, family and friends who are family.
So here’s to us,
Chosen by fate, By God,
To make merry and mirth
With our brief, brief time—a golden candle—
Under the Golden dome,
Its gilded shadow brilliant, like our lives.
There we will stand once more,
transformed in our heart of hearts
To something more
More than gold and more than words
More than anything.
This blissful divinity, our legacy
In this hallowed place,
Will shadow our futures
As this home will tint our past.
When this year,
Like our time all together,
Is done and deeded to dust,
When our holy circle of friendship
Is consigned to memory
And the four winds of our fates
blow to the four corners of our lives,
Then I will smile through our parting tears.
The world has seldom seen any so great
as the likes of us, the us we have forged
In the fire of transforming vulnerability
And how lucky we are, I am
to love and live and light the world
Through this, Our Golden Hour
Tyrel London
senior
Aug. 21
The views expressed in this column are those of the author and not necessarily those of The Observer.
