As for myself, I prefer the flattery of grief.

Let the news go out that I am gone.
A great moan will go up.
Dark clouds, reverberating with thunder
will obliterate the sun
and stars in the firmament fade.

The population will ascend to the capital.
Ministers and princes will come from nations,
stand at the curbs of the broad avenue
to watch the funeral procession: the black-plumed horses
prancing to the skirl of bagpipes in a mournful dirge
and the measured tattoo of drums.
Their tears will flow as rivers in the gutters.

Great men will deliver eulogies.
Veiled women in black silk stockings will cry
out my name-- Lewis! Lewis!
and throw themselves into the grave.

Then the grass will wither
And the bones of the people
turn to powder.

..............................................................Israel Lewis