The last word: Therigatha 3

A continuous recitation is both impossible and unwise.  The silencing of the Vedas is as important as their utterance, and before silence, there is the last word spoken.  This giving up of ritual is the consequence of taking it up, though it may not be the purpose for which it was taken up.

Despite our great grief upon loss, our voice weakens and, growing hoarse, becomes a whisper, and exhausted, is quieted.  It is good to frequently reflect upon this exhaustion, nirvana. 

Weakness, distress - Death pursues you even now, and you cannot outrun it.  It is better to face Death courageously.  Look into the face of Death, as you would any enemy, and you will see nothing fearsome.  Old friends sit quietly together, no one remembers the last word spoken before the dialogue died.  Though your words may echo like a drum on a battlefield, encouraging, animating countless numbers, they too will one day be forgotten in the silence that follows. 

There is no peace to be had in this world, nor any hope of relief from the consequences of your living, no comfort from the grief.  The cemeteries are filled with so many children who bear the name you love, their childish hopes and fears extinguished.  Look from grave to grave, you will see names you did not love so - but that others did, mourned for, and now mourn no longer, having joined them.

Ubbiri, heart aches, your body aches, you are weak and tired.  You have lost your child, your Jiva, your life.  But this is not itself regrettable.  It is only the consequence of having loved your child.  Pierced by shrapnel, you are harmed and experience pain.  Removing the shrapnel, you may be more harmed than permitting it to remain.  The doctor knows when to remove the shrapnel, and when not to; but the warrior knows they must bear the pain, in either case.  Sometimes you have to have the last word.