Kiss the image in a stranger's casket
What has become of splendour?

Twelve strokes have fallen
And the faintly heard breath
That argued my beauty

A ruined soul bewailing
Where the angels allow their wings bewilted
To droop, to bow to the bosom of a friend

Kiss me tenderly, savage God
My lips are dumb to speak a thousand inane words
And how sweet a toil

All is dark, all is blackened
All but an upturned face