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When last I sit upon this dull chair
I watch the movement of the celestial eternity
And provoke my final thoughts
Upon the darkened night…

With chilled breath, the spirit burns
My throat, my heart, my thoughts…
The wind is longer at my back.

The fog is my bereaving shroud.
When thoughts of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;
Go forth, under the open sky

Listen to Nature’s teachings
From Earth and her waters, and the depths of air
Comes a still voice.

Wait a few days, and the all-beholding sun shall see no more.
Within the cold ground, where thy pale form was laid,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image.

Requiring breath, you soak in what still remains.
Though knowing that at the cusp of the void
There is still a sense of longing, a tired hope, a need for a beyond.
Play that against the knowing that eternity is an illusion.

Being is like that of oak.
Strength, weakened, wrought with decay
Height, shortened, truncated by time
Beauty, withered, years bring dust

But still I stand
And nature shan’t claim a price until reckoning.

Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements…
When thy remains rest buried
Or your countenance and body are ash

With chilled breath, the spirit burns
My throat, my heart, my thoughts…
The only trace is memory
And even that fades. Even that dies.

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