The dead live in another domain.
I am their time. I say: It rains. And comes the rain.
I say: Snow. And violin strings of snow fall.
They love to hear my poems and I read them all.

I say: There is no death. I hear a roar:
Death is our life, is life no more?
I say: We are one, let us not split in two.
They love to hear me read my poems, and I do.

1978