The dust I loved once breathed fresh air.
(Remains of one no longer there.)
His spirit, soul: his secret self
had winged its way, yet I myself
still grieved, for all he was to me:
devoted dad – they guarantee:
Both kind and true, but laughed at death.
He thought that men controlled their breath
and length of days; that’s all he knew!
Poor pilgrim who was passing through.
This man I miss and do not know
will always be my dear John Doe.