For Whom ?

Death dries his poetic mystery
Straightening his prosaic form;
Things he never dreamed of in life all happen;
They give him a scented bath
Naked he was born, but accepts
All garments in reeking silence.
The aorma from his floral bed
Drenches not his nostrills
As much as it sweeps
The mind of breathing men
He doesn't ask for those rites and rituals;
But it please the quick to flatter the dead.

As the sacred fire now rages high
His marrow dries and the marrow hies
To us with the pinch of the grave
Yet making us the usual busy slaves.

The distant wind blows near
Whistling the same song
Through wind and weather.