Doctor and mourner die, too,
After mourning over you.
So everything’s equal in the end:
In the world, nothing to defend
But another moment of giving
By those fortunate to be living.
What we strain—with our souls—to say
Cannot be articulated anyway,
Except in vague gestures understood
By ceremony and the common good.
So do not panic about your fate–
The poetry prize arrives too late.
The happy do not heed fame.
After burying you,
Doctor and mourner will be buried, too,
With furious indifference the same.