death poem

and breaketh bread no more
grieve not for the invisible
sad are they who know not love
why are the things that have no death
over the river they beckon to me
my mother taught me that every night
sleep sweetly in your humble graves
it was many and many a year ago
she limps with halting painful pace
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
suddenly, out of dark and leafy ways
one with you
awful truths these be