Me and my black rags look at the casket.
Mocking thee and others in the graveyard.
Soft. My little lily’s petals, and skin.
I touch’d it once and again, I did.
Thou beautiful body rests on that berth.
Death bed, whitened and without a whisper.
Cursed. My little lily don’t you die.
Gather your petals and try to fly.
With those other green, dark and yellow.
You give the meaning for the hallows.
Rip’d off. Withered and scream.
Focused candor, a sleep without dream.
His little creation, you were. Perished now.
Gloomy he stands, pouring tears from the sky.
Cry? For my little lily, why should I?
Just a matter of time. All have to die.