We sang a dirge
But no tears to bid farewell.
We dug a grave
But no place to place a casket.
We erected a cenotaph
But no place to lay a wreath.

Sorrow clapped with one hand.
Rays of tragedy raced with one leg

To unlock the gate of tomb.
Town Crier's gong rendered
      sounds of sadness
To inform the confounded cenacle.

Will your pen still pen a farewell?
Will your ink speaks for itself?
Will the diarists still hear your voice?

You slumber till eternity.
But you will not die again.