I had hoped we’d meet again, Monsignor. A crime, you rob me of true triumph. What is victory without your impassioned speeches condemning me as a tyrant and your prognostications of the eventual domination of freedom? Alas, your gifted tongue is forever still. Your verse will go on. I hope it will outlive me and my reign. Would that your mind had not been so poisoned against reason, tradition, that you could love the people that were here and now—our people, starving, cold, and desperate—more than your vision of a perfected world. Well, you are dead and have taken your talents to the grave; I know no greater argument for my position than that. You are gone, and the world will never be perfect. I pray I can give those after us some foundation to stand on, and I hope, when our people do stand again, they will remember that our fight was between brothers. The peace of the dead was not the peace I had longed for, but it is the reality I must try and make peace with.
Eulogy: Peace
Tale Told 