Old Man Faces Death

Old Henry, softer please.
Your pipes, though they were screaming
Where the Sanscrit masters sang
And roused a thousand plumes
From out the fiery core,
Old Henry, softer please,
You cannot raise a feather
On my stone dead bird of youth.
Her sweetness is a latent hush
Within my brain.
Play softly, Henry,softly,
Until bells of vespers ring.
I will not long remain.
Last night I dreamed
An Ancient Queen
And Modern Jester.
They seemed to smile through death.
Look out across the plaza.
I can sense a darkening rain.
Play softly, some sweet dirge,
As I measure out my breath.