Eulogies are the sympathies Of a thousand-word cycle To the mad imagery of life. Your beauty is as believable as the small token To your misery. You have silver drawn around your eyes Like the open curtain that floods the room, with the moon's rays. You are as lonely As the eulogy spoken by the priest, not by the mourner. Your hair comes close to your bosom, close to your heart Speaking of all you have lost in your depth, To be buried, in its depth. What do you feel, truly in yourself When you see the sun, for its warmth? Are you, as you state Contemplative of death? The loss has been so apparent to be seductive Of your lips against the cross For your sin could become the world's own As it did die for your growth, The world you knew.