No Epitaph Comments

No moss nor mottle stains
My parents' unmarked grave;

My word on them remains

Stouter than stone, you told me.



"Martyred to words", you have thought,

Should be your epitaph;

At other times you fought

My self-reproaches down.



Though bitterly once or twice

You have reproached me with how

Everything ended in words,

We both know better now:



You understand, I shall not

If I survive you care

To raise a headstone for

You I have carved on air.
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