Within a year of losing my voice, I was at University, determined that as I had lost my true voice, and not being able to give any emotion in it’s robotic replacement, that the written word would somehow have to be my method of expression. I studied creative writing and poetry at first, and was introduced to the many forms of poetry on most countries in the world going back in time to Greek and Roman.

I have just come across an old poem I wrote when studying French medieval poetry, as practised in village churches in France in the 14th century. This was always called a Kyrielle, and was composed nearly always by the village priest, when god would be asked for some divine intervention, nearly always in saving some-bodies life in the village. The priest would sing out the first three lines, and the congregation would join him in singing the last line, which was nearly always “OH GOD BE MERCIFUL TO ME.”

I know that seven hundred years later, friends and family, say a prayer for us, when that operation gets close, and its nice to know and gives you a certain strength and confidence. So I wrote this poem, during that lecture.

When told its’ cancer, so I sighed,
"Is my life then to end," I cried.
There’s no future, that I can see.
"OH GOD BE MERCIFULTO ME"

The guilt within my troubled breast,
Of cigarettes, never confessed.
Too late I suppose for a plea,
"OH GOD BE MERCIFUL TO ME"

And now I stand with fearful eyes,
dare not uplift them to the skies.
In case my anguish he should see,
"OH GOD BE MERCIFUL TO ME."

Then a surgeon, and he alone,
Gave me a chance to then atone,
and gave me life, and once more free,
"OH GOD BE MERCIFUL TO ME."

And now with voice to speak again,
a second chance of life attain.
My humble thanks will always be,
"GOD HAS BEEN MERCIFUL TO ME."