sad death poem

for i was a gaunt, grave councillor
among the mountains i wandered
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
in your arms was still delight
she knows a cheap release
some of the hurts you have cured
since i have felt the sense of death
all down the years
in and of itself
i love the old melodious lays
now while my lips are living
do the boys and girls still go
i am dying