No One
When you are dead, the violets will bloom
In quiet purple or in white. The years
Will pass, will pass to centuries, and winters loom
With blossomed frost on window panes. The spheres
Above this world will spin and sweep until
Eternity arrives and then perhaps
They too will be no more. Wide death will fill
That unimaginable void. No maps
Are made or can be made of unending,
Black, utter blankness. Vacuum and cold
And silence will reign in this upending
When only aftermath is manifold.
And who will care if there’s no lasting stain?
And who will cry if there’s no joy or pain?