When the morning was waking over the war

He put on his clothes and stepped out and he died，

The locks yawned loose and a blast blew them wide，

He dropped where he loved on the burst pavement stone

And the funeral grains of the slaughtered floor.

Tell his street on its back he stopped a sun

And the craters of his eyes grew springshots and fire

When all the keys shot from the locks， and rang.

Dig no more for the chains of his grey-haired heart.

The heavenly ambulance drawn by a wound

Assembling waits for the spade's ring on the cage.

O keep his bones away from the common cart，

The morning is flying on the wings of his age

And a hundred storks perch on the sun's right hand.