I will not die, half hidden
amongst the unwanted dead –
with no I and no other.
At the moment of death,
the morning bells will ring out.
And I will see a young woman,
her red hair an elegant wave –
smiling and always loyal.
A fleeting dream world,
to salve yesterday’s pain.
In this ghastly white, I will
turn to ash – and
to hell with the wind.
Eastward or Westward,
wherever the wind might carry me.
The day is the end of the poets work.