The Death

The parlor of my home

Once echoed life;

Now dreary silence

Becomes its ornament.

The bustling and bursting forth

Now becomes retraction,

The free spirit of life

Now dons the reaper’s garbs.


Heavens weep;

The Earth, wet with angel’s tears,

Lays lonely, depraved of sunlight,

As the roof of the world -

The clouds high above -

Enclose it like a tomb.