For never loving you,
just feeling sorry.,
put me a fence from the same railing,
which we both held,

when this life could bring,
and we, despite the years,
went down to the underground peace-grace,
the repository of complete freedom.

For never being sad with you.,
just bored.,
bring water to my mound in a handful
and lei this whim through the hand,

criss-cross, inglorious to give to the gods,
like he was running from the battlefield.
The words I once taught the syllables,
three syllables of the word "happen."

For that, in shame, not believe you,
rather, I believe it, but later,
let my son play the copper pipe,
when I die, happy bar pulled out of work.