Wishes of a Living Dead

Death haunts these parts,
remains watching me with sadness;
a single idea
has got into her head:
that'll be her fiancée...

Every night she strolls outside my house,
greets me with a dismal smile
and a great hope: 
that'll watch over her
while she cheerfully works...

Hours go by becoming eternal,
she waits for me at the corner
but I can't follow her,
I can not with this agony,
I can not against this conquest...

Maybe I should go after her,
learn every night to love her;
that way I wouldn't be so lonely
and I could dance 'till the end
in a beautiful and silent garden of memories...
a cemetery!

- D Feline '99

The original

Death is Nothing At All

Death is nothing at all.
I have only slipped away to the next room.
I am I and you are you.
Whatever we were to each other,
That, we still are.

Call me by my old familiar name.
Speak to me in the easy way
which you always used.
Put no difference into your tone.
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.

Laugh as we always laughed
at the little jokes we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me. Pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word
that it always was.
Let it be spoken without effect.
Without the trace of a shadow on it.

Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same that it ever was.
There is absolute unbroken continuity.
Why should I be out of mind
because I am out of sight?

I am but waiting for you.
For an interval.
Somewhere. Very near.
Just around the corner.

All is well.

Funeral Death Poem by Henry Scott Holland ~ 1847-1918
Canon of St. Paul's Cathedral ~ London. UK

Death is nothing else but ...

...going home to God, 

the bond of love will be unbroken for all eternity. 

- Mother Teresa

Funeral Blues

W.H. Auden (1907-1973)

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone.
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling in the sky the message He is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever, I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.