Let it not come to be
that I die far away from thyself,
Amidst thousands of pigeons
roughly mimicking tottering newborns.
Let it not come to be
that while rushing the clouds to the cape,
in the darkness you’ll vision
me weeping, forsaken, forlorn.

Lamentation may well I receive
from a chorus of water and skies, and the sandstone
may it hold me benign,
may engulf,
recalling that pace,
let me please lamentation retrieve,
let the fugitive me be outshone
in the white night by thy
immanent, earthly praise.

Silence will fall throughout.
But the black tug will thunder across
in the midst of the flow,
as it hectically fights the dark,
and the night hour’s haunt
this poor life will betroth
with your own beauty’s glow
under my mortal, righteous arch.