Sadness comes to remind me of death.
The world after I am gone
is the same world;
where the children are playing-
in the indifferent garden of eucalyptus trees-
and waiting to grow up and
to go to a dance;
at the midnight’s den.
Oh, where the butterflies will be sprouting-
Oh, where the brave will be weak at the knees-
Then, when the ambivalent sons and daughters
will be gulping down beer together
at the end of a particularly hard time
on the dance floor-
the wily trees will be falling over each other
and giggling, and whispering in vain,
“Will it, will make them immortal?”