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I carry a coin on my lips
I see through a filter of grey
The leaking craft carries me
To a world of flameless smoke
Under the cosmic roots
In the vaults of asphodel

My hope is their memory of me
Here is a poison without root
Here is a cry without sound
As if I sensed the life I left
Through my own dead senses
I yearn to feel, the cold, the dark
To be afraid, to be anything
I cannot choose but walk
The feet that carry me are numb
The hands that guide me are bones
The staff I lean on is my coffin lid

I’m going blindly to my fate
All around me they sleep
Never dreaming, only walking
Somnambulating ghosts
Shades like me, but thoughtless
If this be a vision
If this be illusion
If I am asleep, alive
I pray not to die like this.
And my descendants

What of them?
Will they pour some wine
Into my grave-earth?
Weill they tell my story still?
As long as my line lives
I live with them also.

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