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Rated: E · Poetry · Death · #1680862
I foresee my death!
                                    I have to go

At silent night,that silent night
I shall smile back to the Bosom
From which I cried out
Into this pit of sorrows...

I shall lay my head
On the moist fur of time,
And my laurels beside my wrinkled shell.
I shall smile back to the Bosom!
Leaving nations weeping;
O,the exit of the golden fingers...

I shall smile back to the Bosom,
Hoisting the olive branch in Jerusalem
And planting its seeds in Africa
Leaving in the palms of my Angels
The hoes and sickles,and say;
''Weep not for my soul
I know my way back home...
See you at the Lamb's banquet
I hope you make it...''
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