The gloomy cripple with his empty eyes
Has died. There was his funeral, but no
No bells, no mourners at his obsequies;
Even the wind forgot to howl and blow.

The horses of the sun behind the door
Whirl him away, having him in their charge;
Their hooves on the horizon madly paw
The sog and flickerings of the mirage.

But when I open up the door to let
The sunlight in on what he left behind,
I see big flies that buzz over a pit;
His corpse watched by a crow is what I find.