Death Sonnet I

From the icy niche where men placed you

I lower your body to the sunny, poor earth.

They didn't know I too must sleep in it

and dream on the same pillow.

I place you in the sunny ground, with a

mother's sweet care for her napping child,

and the earth will be a soft cradle

when it receives your hurt childlike body.

I scatter bits of earth and rose dust,

and in the moon's airy and blue powder

what is left of you is a prisoner.

I leave singing my lovely revenge.

No hand will reach into the obscure depth

to argue with me over your handful of bones.