With heaps of darkened ashes stretched behind,
[Like dusty shrouds with traces (twisted time)
Of shameful things as well as the sublime
Of all the kindly deeds (and not so kind)]
The fading moments take their deathly toll;
While scythe-like shadows hover round the bell
The last remaining shudder sounds the knell.
(See the coffin decked in bright burnished gold).
Then, as if a newborn breached the furthest
Reaches of the grand canal; it halted,
While the world unheld its breath and faltered,
Queuing up to see him by the day kissed.
Who can stop the epic epoch turning?
No one. For eternity it’s yearning.
© 2011, Alan Morrison