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Tell me that I am not too old,

to go search the city of gold;

old age has not tethered my soul,

tell me that I can want for more.

My fingers are charred with coal,

filling the bottoms of some fictatious bowl;

dark is the night now and it’s all I see,

tell me that I can now grieve.

Oh, also tell me if I shall ever be,

what I dreamt at the crown of my tree;

where I hung by for the rains to leave,

and every drop vanished in an unknown creek.

I will tell you, I have never felt such heave,

having forced my brothers through the mind’s sieve;

now all the beauty that resided in the world,

resides under the city of gold.

Please tell me they can be unfurled,

Replace with me and I will lay curled;

Dreams are your percussion, O Death,

Play, as I take my last breath.