The drum – the beat reverberates,
the coffin-held heart still quakes,
between the time traversed, unseen
before it died below the green.

The hand who grasps at last resorts
and goes for throws the body thwarts;
the scathed and bloodied knuckle skin,
is not a hand that you can win.

Of kin in blood, but that is all,
your legacy and greatness fall,
and eyes will watch as you go down,
but none the lips will wear a frown.