No more when you're dead.
No more speaking when you're dead
No more moving when you're dead
No more fighting when you're dead
No more thinking when you're dead.

No more crying when you're dead
No more drifting when you're dead
No more loving when you're dead
No more waiting to be dead when you're dead
No more wishing to be dead when you're underground.

No, nothing at all, whispers the ghost of the old wife.

When you're dead, you're dead.

No more bathing in the sun, for us.

For we lie down in the ground, with the bright autumn leaves rolling on over our heads;

And the dying winter grass, and man's sweet breath, and the soot and noise of shuffling feet not disturbing our dreams.

For we lie here together, the both of us;

And there's time enough now for all who sleep, and that means the both of us;

Now that time has passed, and we lie here not stirring, now that time has reached its end.

(c) February 2007 M. Rephun