Celestial immortals mourn such a sage-
Bones transformed, spirit becomes stars
Your poems all rising through heaven,
Sharpening constellations into bright
Clarities. Like the rarest ancient poems,
Your are pure spirit. We call ethereal
Poets of renown banished immortals,
Ascending and descending without end.
For in poems we’re made pure by death
And without them we live mean lives.
Struck metal’s the perfect song for you,
Song bequeathed all repose down all time.
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