My dear Beloved you are dead.
Dead on some distant star.
Me, I am dead here, below the earth.
We will not meet between the two.

Was it only yesterday I received the spear
draining you from me?
As if you had never burned in my bones?
Have you passed through me just a ghost?

There are no tombs of Kings.
Only men in the end. Only men
and boys scarcley born; authors
of great dreams trembling when they sleep.
Oh, it is so brief. Here in the earth.