..:~Caverna Ða Mor¢ega~:..

09/10/2003 20:15
FUNERAL BLUES - W. H. Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
silence the pianos and, with muffled drums,
bring on the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let airplanes circle moaning overhead
scribbling on the sky the message: he's dead.
Pup crepe-bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West
my working week, my Sunday rest,
my noon, my midnight, my talk, my song.
I thought that love would last forever, I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now, put out every one.
Pack up the moon, dismanle the sun.
Pull away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

enviada por ªMor¢ega






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