sad death poem

gone are the three, those sisters rare
storm
softly now the light of day
mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam
when night drifts along the streets of the city
who will be naming the wind
i see all human wits
short and sweet, and we've come to the end of it
the little white prayers
to what shall a woman liken her beloved
friend, whose smile has come to be
three years ago today
splendid and terrible your love
a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue