Now his breath is black,
like the space between the stars.
And his eyes lower
to meet the soil on planet earth.
But the sun is bright and still-
it still writes lines on the river;
and it will set always
so the moon can take its place.
And the moon, also, will shine down;
for eternity, they say.
And he himself shall bring nothing;
his body does not stop the harvest;
his soul does not tint the clouds;
his absence does not fill a single pitcher.
And so his word is written
as it melts back to the earth.
Where he becomes, and she becomes: it.
As his eyes fail to see,
and his nerves fail to feel,
and the tree in his yard
reaches gently over in the wind,
and its seed grows everywhere.
And so his word is written;
for eternity, the say.