The stars will shine forever over you
but they will never reach down to your face;
And the dead leaves will hover over you
To leave a blanket on your resting place.
In summer Burdock leaves will flap and wave
And Sumac sprouts will grow and spit red leaves
That will lodge on a net, brown love-vine weaves
And webs that spiders weave above your grave.
You will not care for rhymes and gold leaves when
You lie in the place I am speaking of.
I don't think you will know about them then,
And, I don't think you will dream of love
When you lie blind to the drifting skies above.
Out of the womb of the woman at your birth.
At death you go back to the womb of the earth.
Man With the Bull Tongue Plow