In death equal made

Cinders of no edifice can show proof How hoary did it look under the dome, Nor dust can vouch if it came from tall roof Of a hallowed church, or from poor man’s home, Or if the dust was blown by a tiny Burst of rare breeze, or by world wind so great, No warden would vouch for its pedigree, Nor would a priest predict its sublime fate, So does the ash of a funeral pyre— If it peeled off a prince in regal suit, Or off a pauper that died a death dire, For, hushed up dusty graves lie stony mute, And death cometh equal as gasping breath, Levelling all— if not in life, in death. _________________________________ Sonnet | 01.11.2011, revised August 2024 |