I will not mourn you, young, melodious maestro,
when we were not ready to surrender your voice
to the pathogens of death; not when your life,
a thrilling melody was still an acceptable, vibrant force,
growing like a fern in our desert of thorns!
The young die suddenly, their beards not yet grey;
but death is no more a respecter of time and age,
and the old have no tears left to mourn them,
because their hearts, my brother, are stony graves!
But I will not mourn you when your verses live!













