Farewell.. Ali.. Farewell My Bro

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

If she were far..

If she were far,
she would be a fragrance.

If she were far,
there would be long-distance call, or a letter,
or sometimes the excuse of holiday greetings,
to know how she is doing.

If she were far, she would be a dream,
   or walking thought,
   or an image which dances before the eyes
   and glitters like words through the night,
   as one turns  the pages of books.

An image for whose sake
   a life-long search through caves and rocks,
   a life-long swirl on waters and sands,
   living with a flute and acacia brambles,
   keeping guard on ramparts all night--
all would be desirable.

If she were far,  for her sake
   a voyage that lasted ten years,
   every murder committed
would be just.

Sometimes a fragrance, sometimes a dream,
or a couplet, a book of lyrics or a fable.
But she is not far,
is neither a dream nor a fragrance.
Just a little warmth  of the body,
in bed, at night.