Music, which is unconscious poetry,
Captivated me in my prime.
Now I’m ready to talk
in verse and be sublime:
I’m the only one who does not die.
A chair gets old. Out it goes. Goodbye.
Everything I know is gone:
Poets, gone, friends from my past,
the chair which felt the warmth of my home.
The cunning strategies do not last.
I see everything perish. I do not die.
Death is something I see.
But it never happens to me;
Mine I can’t see.
Does Mozart hear his music?
Can you let me know if I die?
(Me only myself pleasing)
Will you warn the other countries?
The rotting ones—and cold ones
with junk piles that are freezing?