Even his suit was decent
on the catafalque of mediocrity
as we viewed him

Let’s not omit the blotches
black flowers invading
the bandaged head

He wanted to go without fuss
a decent citizen in an unjust world
doing unwanted deeds of benevolence

But no greatness in his grey suit
nothing but waxen honesty
unmoving mottled hands

One should ignore that his serenity
was punctured and dissected
trepanned and anaesthetized

The unjust world of surgery
taking revenge on skull and thorax
not a dark weakness of his decency

This son cannot forget that all this casketry
contained dried flowers of a greater man
cremated with his hollow chest

That sometimes from his throat
the warbling birdsong of his youth would rise

That his decency covered a crushed rage