Now I feel my body-house,
And now I do not; now there is
My poor self, and now there is not
In this way I think it through with care
And for a long long time, I swear.
Retired, I sit leaning against a mossy stone
Around my feet green grasses
Start to outgrow; my head is dusted
With the reddish cloak
Having seen me off, some village folks
Bring a basket of fruits and a tub of wine
To feast on my monument-mound
Always,
Deborah
Ron