It's better that way — death is golden there,
Like twilight when the sun begins to care
For what it leaves behind.
Before this Sphinx
The fur and the bones of the living cats,
Their unforgettable moans,
Go silent.
And yet we need them, to know about life,
Its trivial pains, reversible gains,
The brutality of the constant con.
How else can the dead be honored?
