The world mourned,
when you lie in front of the crowed,
silent; as the last hours of a deep night;
on a stage, motionless,
as the paradox, of the cruelest kind,
for you were once the occupant
of every stage that rose with crowd.
from someplace, unknown,
where the sensual sight unveils,
its inability to pass;
where the ears hear nothing
except, silence and the silence alone...
We can open the doors of the mind,
to your song any more, only when
the ears and eyes, and all the delicate senses,
learn the language that flowers can speak,
the language of the wind,
the language of the nature,
or the language of the soul.
Here is the last handful of earth,
to your grave; the last stage,
of your human life.
Michael, may God bless your soul
rest in peace.