In times to come, will you believe me or believe my verse
When they come to place the words “Poet” on my tomb?
But if I write of the hidden beauty found in those eyes,
Or try to solidly account for all of your graces
Heaven itself would stop and say, "This poet lies,
Such heavenly features never left our heavenly places."
So should my letters become yellowed with age,
Or be ravaged by old women of less truth than tongue,
Sentencing my words to remain inside this poet's cage,
A simple wrinkle of some ancient love song.
Through your children that live in that futuristic time,
You will live twice, in them and in this rhyme.