O’ man thou erecteth palaces, castles and courts
while on death a mere grave sufficeth thee
How magnificent and formidable thou maketh thy forts
in thy wish to make both future and history.
Thou who art’ accustomed to marble walls
and mansions of mirror, silver and gold
Thy grave shalt be small compared to palatial halls
even if a thousand demons it may hold.
Not a coin or even half a coin of gold
wilt thou take with thee to thy grave
All that shalt ye leave behind for others to behold
and now shalt ye fear though ere thou hath been brave.
Thy innards shalt merge with mere earth soil and sand
No matter now if ye dwelled in huts or palaces of gold
Thy grave shalt occupy the tiniest portion of thy land
From the warmth of quilted beds wilt thee lie in the cold.
Thus ere ye consider founding, building thy imposing edifice
a homeless vagrant if ye shelter in thine care
Knowing our lives art’ but on a mere precipice
while the joy of giving doth give a joy beyond compare!
Death’s a journey but no provisions can ye take along and fold
How are ye to respond when it inevitably calls?
A simple ditch our skeletal bones shalt hold
as the living walk all over us with gentle footfalls.
Shakespeare too returned to dust as hath saith he
and while many might abandon his archaic style
yet his quill shalt vie for soul-like immortality
for his works might flow on as does the old Nile.
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