christmas poem

and with the humming bird
i make my shroud, but no one knows
gaily through the fields we danced
the endless, foolish merriment of stars
i know what you're going to say
i've won the race
he's gone
the pale day drowses on the western steep
day is done
the hypocritic days
over the river they beckon to me
why are the things that have no death
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
listen