Brief, caught I, the scent of my funeral pyre Built by those without sense of that cleansing fire That will have it's revenge on such spare limbs as I can recruit To make dying not an end but a desire. So, my words ebb away on marvellous air, for the dead don't speak And those words that might destroy, can be re-cast in a comfort that may seek Nobility, in a heart of darkness that still bears a spark Like the pure love of a stranger that still leaves it's mark Like a kiss from the other world, languorous and sensual An embrace in the chaste dark And final thought, insensible...