The city of the Dead was a sprawling affair. Unplanned, the buildings cropped up in a wonderfully organic way, like swollen growths, giant black blotches, against the soft twilight landscape. Heaven was naked, a clear, mournful blue which caught the heart with the bait of beauty upon the hook of longing. How forlorn the soul which sees and never tastes of such a sky; how I have with tears looked upon the tweeting birds which flitter through their lowly heaven—still they are closer than I, though they cannot know what it is I know below.
I see they are coming from the city for me; I was left out here for them. The dirges called out to the city, and my mourners bid her to take me away.
In that place I go to, will I still see the sky? Will I know the catching of my breath in the cold morning-time? What goosebumps will be mine to feel the breaking dawn upon my skin? Is it not always there a night? Do not they dream vain dreams which never again wake? Will I see the stars then? know more of heaven in the darkness ahead?
Take a screw, o merciful child, and bore a hole in that lid before you bury me. Let me see beyond this box that cold heaven above, that ceaselessness of the ocean’s breadth. I am no miser, I only wish to see—let others claim to own. My breath went to the sky, and breathless, I lay down to die.