The street is silent Everything become still, Cars pulled up on pavements, make way Pedestrians, without utterance Transfix their gaze, As though Death himself Sat behind the wheel At the head of the cavalcade; Brushing a tear from the cheek Of his smile fixed face:
A small white box, Lost in the back Of a long black limousine, Continues on its journey; Unhindered by a day That up to that moment, Was very like any other; Until there it was Iridescent in the sunlight Making a last short journey From cradle to grave.
I swear not a bird sang Nor an engine idled restlessly.