"They think I am dead don't they?" he laughed
"That's why they go away."
The sun shown on his glossy hair,
reflected in his eyes,
A golden boy, a young man in his prime,
never considering that he might die.
He stood underneath the shadows that overhung his grave,
he looked at me as though there was nothing left to say,
he kicked at a dirt clod and gave a soft sigh,
restless, still unaware of his own demise,
"I saw my mother come here,
she hung her head and cried.
But I was only sleeping,
she thinks that I have died."
Again he laughed, his face lifted toward the sun,
I noticed the tracks along his face where once the tears had run,
"I wanted to tell her something...
Something she would understand...
I wanted to reach her somehow...
I wanted to hold her hand..."
He seemed to fade a little,
in the full clear light of day,
I had to listen closely,
to the words he had to say.
"I am not dead!
I am not dead!"
I think I heard him moan,
I looked but could not see him,
For like the wind he had flown...
By Charles Indigo Longfellow