.

words, words, words..

once i had a gift,

make love out of words;

now taken in a drift

drift, let's call him love

no words a poet could write

so as no peace could bring a dove;

like a fight without any might

it cripples my hand

so as the ripple of my thought

it gives no demand, none, neither demand;

the riddle of love put it all in slaught

go, curse Cupid,

go, curse the doubt

either way it's stupid

for love from nowhere it sprout

mornings of glory

and shadows of the moon;

there is no greater story

than you, finding me so soon

my speech has been taken,

my pen has been broken;

hell knows how i love you,

heaven knows that it's true

i curse you and for that,

curse me, for this one is true;

curse the bold poet,

that is truly out of hue

ode to my death

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

I'm not there, I didn't die;
Still I can feel the blades of rain

And the sun still warms my childish terrain

I see you and the flowers in hue

White roses, fair proses and the great sky of blue

The zephyr, the fire and the fear

I see them more clearly, I see like a seer

Play of the twilight on creamy walls

Teutonic folklore and all of the trolls

Happy thoughts and chasing windmills

Stories I used to tell will be told at your wills

Two ravens stood and stumbled to death

I know it was them that would lie underneath

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

I am not there, I did not die.