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I saw the procession, followed the coffin
like the others, with head respectfully bowed.
I found no reasons to ask them, Who’s this stranger?
Where’d he live? How’d he die?
There are many causes of death,
among them the ache of life.
I asked myself, Does he see us, or does he see
annihilation? Does he regret the end?
I knew that he would not open the coffin,
covered as it was with violets, to say goodbye to us,
to thank us, and to whisper the truth.
(What is the truth?) Perhaps he, like us,
busied himself rolling up his shadow.
