Soon I shall be gone
Will there be anyone to mourn?
There will be nothing but a stone
Resting on the bones of a life, stillborn.
The pages of my torn book,
The manuscript that no one would look,
Would litter the boneyard
Like leaves swept by a solemn wind, southward.
Time would stand muted, holding the empty end
Of a broken kite-string that it failed to mend.
The destiny, the dream, both wounded from a life-long fist fight
Would sing the requiem of a life’s plight.
The meaning of my work, hard to know
When I am alive and shouting now
Would in the end, dawn on this world
When beneath the earth, silently I curled.