For nought else but thee will make you found there.
Let colour be dust in thine step thereon,
Thine own breath bring life to the open air.
Find sanctity in silence if that is
The semblance in which you find yourself lain.
Keep on thy blessed tongue the taste of this,
That which means nought but to abet thy pain.
Let not heaven’s demons impede your step,
Take nought but joy from the souls you may find.
N’er lose your grip on the memories you kept
Of all the hearts that you long left behind.
Take all of time, if that is what you must
Do to make your sadness turn to gold dust.