Why birds do you chirp, at this grave hour?

When all things are dead, when waking corpses

Brood over books of life lessons passed,

And sleeping corpses lie in graves, their beds;

Its four o’clock, and the people in the

Real world will wake in an hour or two;

Waking people, though dead, and I am dead,

Though waking still, and the sun is dead, too.

By this time, the dead have succumb to fate:

Sleep. But still, I am as awake as you.

The sun peeks though now, though still not wake,

The sky, you know the one, a light grey blue.

Though I’ve tried, I’ve slept not a wink. Why, birds

Do you chirp when all things are dead, but you?