A week ago we danced into great halls and sanctuaries,
The two-step casket waltz and tears pounding the floor,
And we, we struck our breasts and cried out.
Ushers swayed side to side as they held their post,
And the choir wept, for bitter was the joy of Father gone home.
They'll need more than a few mops to dry this river,
Streams of hope, temporarily damned to the loss:
The sheep have not a shepherd.
And there you lay in your glory, the chantry you built
From ruins, what with your will and prayers.
What could so sustain you, my tired friend?
What ever could bring you such vision and promise?
You have transformed ashes, shards of glass into a palace of hope,
And we cannot forgive you, for you have wronged us not.
We merely tremble at your newfound distance.
Get up! Get up, you wretched actor!
Why do you feign this mortal sleep?
But there you lay, motionless, emotionless,
Yellowed by Hades, a slight smile placed on your face.
And off you are ferried by careful Charon
Disguised in suits and kente cloth, singing Soon and very soon,
My friend, shall we see you again.
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