The Stone

Cut the stone, cut it fine.

Engrave the letters, make it mine.

Polish the marble, till it shines.

Place on my grave, so its within sight.

That when the sun shines, it catches the light.

And make the marble, black as night.

Plant the blue rose’s, so they blooms in spring.

So the angels approve, and the heraldic sing.

Beside the cherry blossom tree, that in the wind swings.

The stone should be of cipolin.(Italian marble)

With it so my immortality, will begin.

For many years she will come, my Madeline.

And pray beside my grave, for my soul.

To heaven it may go, not in pieces but whole.

And she shall live, in my oversoul.

The epitaph shall, read so bold.

Lettered in the brightest, gold.

It shall last forever, and never look old. 

But I am not dead yet, nor held in esteem.

Nor an explorer, there are many places I have never been.

So it is quite unlikely that, such a monument of mine will ever be seen.