The poem
We lack all knowledge of this parting. Death does not deal with us. We have no reason to show death admiration, love or hate; his mask of feigned tragic lament gives us
a false impression. The world's stage is still filled with roles which we play. While we worry that our performances may not please, death also performs, although to no applause.
But as you left us, there broke upon this stage a glimpse of reality, shown through the slight opening through which you dissapeared: green, evergreen, bathed in sunlight, actual woods.
We keep on playiing, still anxious, our difficult roles declaiming, accompanied by matching gestures as required. But your presence so suddenly removed from our midst and from our play, at times
overcomes us like a sense of that other reality: yours, that we are so overwhelmed and play our actual lives instead of the performance, forgetting altogehter the applause.