You are not here.
The stone that bears your name
Is only stone, carved by a foolish hand
In ignorance or jest, a thing of shame
Propped on a hillside in a wasted land.
Whatever lies at length beneath this clay
Is not the flesh and bone that I hold dear.
I touch the starveling weed and turn away.
You are not here. You never have been here.
Though others climb this hill with measured pace
And stoop to read your name and cry aloud,
I shall not look in this unlikely place
For one so young and beautiful and proud.
I turn my back upon the marble lie.
You are not dead. I will not let you die.