The Gravedigger's Requiem (or, the early death of the newly born twin trees)
And was it worth it,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
After the porcelain, after all those talks of you and me,
to have bitten off all those matters with a smile
to have squeezed the universe into so many balls
and rolled them towards all those overwhelming questions,
to have said "That's exactly what I mean"
or "That is not what I meant"?
Was it worthwhile,
after having laid our pillows by each other's head
and had no need to say anything at all?
For I am not Prince Hamlet, but I am no attendant lord.
I am no attendant lady, either.
I'm a gravedigger.
I find no difference between a jester and a king,
and burying the death has become so auspicious
that I can dig while whistling a merry tune.
I can dig and bury even if the occassion
requires a requiem.
I'm also a good prophet.
I could tell you all, but you'll find it out yourself.
Yet again, another variation on Elliot's Prufrock.