Your brother has laid flowers on your stone today Ole.
Tulips, pink, purple and white, I think.
The black memorial stone, sculptured book, what beauty here stands; chiselled words, name and dates, else all said, to mark and say you’re dead.
Aba wishes, as do others, it was not so, that stone was not in place, that you were here still, face to face.
But fact is that you are and that it is in place, book sculptured and designed as such, skilfully done and made to last; outlive us who come see and make our visit, steady and firm, granite made, and there beside you, Ole, we also will be boxed and gently laid.