Now, the wry Rosenbloom is dead
And his finical carriers tread
On a hundred legs, the tread
Of the dead.
Rosenbloom is dead.
They carry the wizened one
Of the color of horn
To the sullen hill,
Treading a tread
In unison for the dead.
Rosenbloom is dead.
The tread of the carriers does not halt
On the hill, but turns
Up the sky.
They are bearing his body into the sky.
It is the infants of misanthropes
And the infants of nothingness
That tread
The wooden ascents
Of the ascending of the dead.
It is turbans they wear
And boots of fur
As they tread the boards
In a region of frost,
Viewing the frost,
To a chirr of gongs
And a chitter of cries
And the heavy thrum
Of the endless tread
That they tread;
To a jangle of doom
And a jumble of words
Of the intense poem
Of the strictest prose
Of Rosenbloom.
And they bury him there,
Body and soul,
In a place in the sky.
The lamentable tread!
Rosenbloom is dead.