Their names, their faces are spelled
by an unlettered Muse
by a passing tribute of an elegy,
a shapeless voice
pleasing, but anxiously resigned
to fill that unwonted forgetfulness.
In some breast thy spirit will grow
inquire thy destiny thy fate
for what will cross your strength
your woeful hope, your pray forlorn,
buried under the Stone
overgrown with aged thorns.
The earliest of days, still come
the latest of the nights still linger
with hasty steps approaching
the honour’s neglected voice,
the provoking dust of silence, soothing
the deaf ears, and the blind eyes.
(As we don’t stay here forever.)
Painting “White Flowers” by Vladimir Volegov