Courtesy Roaming Historian
Your cell is being painted so we’re moving you
Temporarily until the walls are white,
When you are returned it will be furnished new—
Dislocated inmate, don’t take fright
Pictures that you loved will be unframed, reframed,
The likenesses of everyone you’ve met,
Those whom you have loved and those you have defamed,
Those you loved and damaged with regret
Furnishings, enjoyments, songs of wasted time,
Sofas, chairs, and hard three-legged stools,
Cabinets containing jugs of soured wine,
Diplomas, medals, portrait busts of fools
Painters and the layers on of golden foil,
Artisans of sapphire parquet,
Glaziers of the crystal windows, all are loyal
Workers in the workshops of the day
When the cell is finished they will call your name,
The door will open musically by sound—
Better than before, the wine unsoured, blame
And praise discarded elsewhere, every wound
Everything you knew before you will not see,
But leading to the garden from the room
Which has no ceiling but the sky and walls of three
Instead of four—O death where is your tomb?