From orchards, and gardens, and house I move on,
From porcelain and goblets engraved by the potter,
On to the final rites, much like the swan
Whose death song is sung by Meander's water.
It's done. I've unraveled the thread of my fate—
I have lived. My name holds its old reputation;
Far from the snares of the clever and great,
My pen rises skyward, a new constellation.
Happy is he who never existed,
Happier he who returns to nil
As he was before, and happier still
Who sits beside Jesus—an angel enlisted,
Free from this body and predestined bond,
A spirit, no destiny but the beyond.