His breast a dull red,
And his drooping head
Looking to find his belated rest.
A scented nest,
Cinnamon and myrrh,
Become his sepulcher;
Here, Death shall have its conquest.
He sings a song of the sun setting old,
The fragrant pyre
A requiem of fire,
Until third morn when embers are cold.
Then arise, Phoenix, arise!
Death's gate is rift!
Now from the ashes lift
A flame coloured wing toward the skies!
No comments:
Post a Comment