John Frost

If these lungs fall flat - death rattles sigh,
And last thoughts hail an entropic mind...
If these brown-eyes glazed beneath their lids,
And this tongue tumesced and formed pursed lips:
With leaden heart, I’d bid you goodbye.

For all who die, and for all who mourn:
A richer dust blows from glen to glen...
If God exists, and ol’ souls reborn:
With riant heart, I’ll see you again.