What happened to your magic? The dimension time
has caused your flesh to fall,
succeeded by my silly rhyme—
silly but youthful. What I said
in the bodily opinion of my verse
will still be talking when you are dead,
your bran cells nowhere near mine.
Your mind will be the soil. We used to talk!—
the new arrangement of the world will favor my terse tricks.
The best of you will entirely float away.
You’ll stick to places dead flesh sticks.
Your days will be a nuisance to my day.
The world will eat my food.
Shepherds will read my poetry as they roam
these soft hills—fertilized by blood,
the green seen by the greeting of this poem.