Hands of iron,

shades turned to blue,

I died here,

and placed my trust with you.

Take care of me, I begged,

and the flowers at my feet:

the lavender, the lilies,

treat them with your loving sweet.

Whisper in the ears

of the songbirds on the grave.

Tell them things you’ve told me,

all the little things I crave.

And before I go what I wish to know:

Will you pine for me? Cry for me, when I decide to finally leave?

Or will you only say you love me

once the dirt has preyed my sleeve?

“Don’t leave! Don’t go! Oh, the things I wish you could know!”

Will you confess it at the marble, where it stands so pale and cold?

What does it matter anyhow?

For you’ve left me here so eagerly without your hand to hold.