I do not know where a poets voice maybe heard
or how
to some a broken bell, clanging, all out of tune
perhaps it will be a song to ears long deaf
sounds of summer in the midst of war
a skylark rising above the flowered meadow
the sweet song of bride and husband on their wedding night
I do not know where this whispering will finally fall silent
whether in the grave or the funeral pyre of a poet
or the paupers grave without its mourners.