Baratão
A tiny figure, a simple moth,
The dust of ages follows her wake.
A veil unfurls as her wings shiver and shake,
Like a pallid tapestry of faded cloth.

A garb of black, a funeral gown,
Shrouds fur of white and chitinous shell.
What does she mourn, for who is the death knell?
She mourns the world, as it's lowered down.

Weep'st thou to see the ruin and decay
Which time doth wreak upon earth's mighty things?
Temples of gods, and palaces of kings,
Weep'st thou to see them crumbling all away?

For all things fair deserted be—
Weed-grown heaps, shunned even by memory.