A truth is that the night will always fall,
Each person feels Thanatos's quiet call,
And everything will pass under a pall.
What then remains, when they have gone away
And we without them must face each new day?
Of what effect is anything we say?
Words offered kindly often do no good,
Although it seems it is words that should
Be offered against the polished wood
That is planted in the ground, an inverse seed
That answers the all-taking dire need
And shows that we the one last call all heed.
So it is I such words as these write
And offer to them finding final night.
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