There are too many martyrs in our history;
the world collects them like jewels,
throws them away before making them great,
creates a precedence for cherishing something after it has died.
I have given away a lot in my life freely and with gladness,
but I have never had to offer my life.
Saving my children is the one thing which would make that an easy decision,
but they have not yet needed me for this.
Yet, you are prepared to die for more,
and I remember the nuthatch, the maple tree, the rivers, the deer and the bears and the wolves and the black flies and the spruce and the pine and the worms and the quartz and the granite and the butterflies and the racoons and the bats and the hawks and the fox and the warbler and the brook and the cliff and the horizons and the grub and the lichen and the moss and the waterfall and the people who want to live in abundance with mutual caring with all my relations.
You risk your life to save my relations.
It is not in me, yet, to starve with you.
But I have asked myself when.
Then I know what it is to be a martyr:
To know that “when” is now.
And I am sick with it.
When is now.