Epitaph

I know
That vanity must have its end
In yon house behind the dunghill
And in all graveyards
Men become clayed bards

That bowed Heads and Hearts heavy
 With the load of humiliation and oppression

Will hope fulfilled
Or death relieved.

That all who fatten themselves on helpless poor
 Must need secure their reign with guns

They are most helpless
Whose death-beds, slave dress.

That to live once is to die
That the cloying warmth of oppression
The un-privileged and their rat races
That the rich in their feasts of filth
That the grieved and the masters, big-bellied
Are equally casualties
Death made all casualties.

 That the moon gliding gently this night
 The leaves staring in at the window
 That the summer going and coming

Are comrades, I know
They know what I know.

We know
That when death retell its usual tale,
Appearance as usual unmentioned
For skeletons are skeletons
We are all skeletons