death poetry

the ancient songs
wrap the earth in cloudy weather
and breaketh bread no more
listen to the sounding sea
for these white arms about my neck
softly now the light of day
over the river they beckon to me
among the smoke and fog of a december afternoon
for truth, for love
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
our pleasant moments fly
the agony of having too much power
perhaps it is no matter that you died