He plays his pan pipes, reeds that seem to mock The robins twittering in the dimming light. Their tones fall like her laughter on my ear. I love her still. There is no refuge here. A single candle flickers, Casting unnatural shadows against the Walls of the bedchamber in which I, in my nightshirt, Prepare to go to sleep.
Red poppies come the plentiful seeds of death.
They slowly excrete the foul-smelling brown opium That will relieve this pain. When morning's yellow pours through My window, splattering against my death-bed, Illuminating my face with its sickly paleness, She will learn of my love. She will laugh her cruel laugh, but I will no longer hear it. The thick, sweet smoke Rises and smothers me in murkey peace. Finally, I am able to rest.