After I am dead
Say this at my funeral:
There was a man who exists no more.
That man died before his time
And his life's song was broken off halfway.
O, he had one more poem
And that poem has been lost
For ever.
He had a lyre,
And a vital, quivering soul.
The poet in him spoke,
Gave out all his heart's secrets,
His hand struck all its chords.
But there was one secret he kept hidden
Though his fingers danced everywhere.
One string stayed mute
And is still soundless.
But alas! all its days
That string trembled,
Trembled softly, softly quivered
For the poem that would free her,
Yearned and thirsted, grieved and wept,
As though pining for someone expected
Who does not come,
And the more he delays, she whimpers
With a soft, fine sound,
But he does not come,
And the agony is very great,
There was a man and he exists no more.
His life's song was broken off halfway.
He had one more poem
And that poem is lost,
For ever.
