(Memoriam.)  

The inscriptions on cemetery stones
Form a mantra of early childhood
The whispers of the long-dead
Echoing down through blood
To caress a young girl in her spring dress
This is what it means to be dead
A forgotten relic of a person
With naught to do but read one's epitaph
And wonder how well you made out
In memoriam, compared to your ancestors
For memory is everything in death
As passion is the heart of living
And the ache of a lover's longing
Is the first taste of sweet Oblivion.