Alongside the ramshackle grave I stop by, The weeds grow high up to the tree. Under the cover of sky hast thou lie, The variation of wheat thou wilt not see.
Here rests thine head upon the lap of earth, A man, to fortune and to fame unknown. The God frowneth not on thine humble birth, The life is lived merely on thine own.
I remember Napoleon’s machete flashed along the Nile, His troops he led through the Alpine snows. Over Mediterranean seawater, that congelated the while, He sharply rose, and abruptly froze. Erenow, with his couteau he marched on from town to town, And storm he provoked throughout the continent. Hence he deserved crown to crown, Yet thou wilt not witness the moment.
And I recall Tolstoy abandoned his identity as a noble, Away he escaped Yanaya Polyana Manor, where he was exalted. To death he was as the pneumonia did enfeeble, While around Moscow the ice of oppressiveness melted. But till it dose with serves he lived through the remainder, To a physical laborer did he descend. Yet thou shalt not perceive the ground surrender, That thou wilt not transcend.
Yet alas! Upon such hast thou not open thine eye? Neither of them wilt change thine countenance. For Jesus saith unto thee, that, thou wouldest look at the sky, Thou shouldest see the significance.
Turn, turn, the wheel of time! Yet the dilapidated grave survived. A man, to fortune and to fame unknown, This mediocre individual hath not follow the footsteps of the well-known. Among breathless rot and stifling dimness, thou drivest Thine track of navigation. Without epitaph on thine grave, With only the cloud’s deep voice, and the wind’s low sigh.
takes about 5 hours 2014.12.19