The swansong

But I have measured my distance in time
And the volume of things gained in this world,
The world of lost souls and portraits of grime,
The blazing summers and those winters cold.
Now eyes my soul the most silent of hills
Where sleep the many sires and grand-sires mute
Side to side piled,with loads of empty wills,
Sans whispers sweet and sans voices to pollute.
Can I converse with the meek and the wise
To prepare me channels and the pathway
To that cold abode which all men despise,
And ask the Most-High to level His just way,
So leaps my stay into the clutches of death
And I hope this rime recompense my breath.

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